


Of Great Revenue: A Twilight Tommy Tale

by GitariArt



Series: Twilight Tommy Tales [3]
Category: OC - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Changelings, Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, Faeries – Freeform, Fairies, Fairy, Fairy Tale Elements, Fights, Gen, Memory Related, Mythical Beings & Creatures, OC, OC - character – Freeform, Original Character – Freeform, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Plot, Relationship(s), Rescue, Supernatural Elements, The Folk, Urban Fantasy, Violence, abduction/rescue, fae, faery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 13:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 56,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3811738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GitariArt/pseuds/GitariArt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twilight Tommy has barely started to adjust to his spirit-touched reality, when he and his roommates have to deal with the Salamander Court and the Child’s Rite. It makes for another very long day in Tommy’s newlife. All the while Tommy tries to contend with what his allies have done, what they are doing, and what the conclusions might mean for who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning/Apology: Due to my vision disability and the limits of spell-checking software, this story probably contains grammatical problems. I have combed through every chapter over a half dozen times. I am also seeking beta readers. I apologize for any inconvenience and will gladly correct any misspellings or grammar fails that are brought to my attention.  
> Acknowledgement: the Straight Lane Group, for input.  
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to persons or characters, living, dead, or fictional, or to actual places or events, is coincidental.  
> Gratitude: Extra-special thanks goes to Rachel, my endlessly living and encouraging wife.  
> SPOILER?: This story makes references to events which took place in Ill Met by Moonligh: A Twiilight Tommy Tale. I am not sure that they qualify as SPOILERS, but you may want to read the first story first.

A Note:

The following story takes place on Friday, November 25th, 2016, a suitably foreboding day, in your humble author’s opinion. This was the day after the secular United States holiday of Thanksgiving, colloquially referred to as Black Friday. Historically “Black” referred to a positive fiscal accounting term. In almost all other metaphoric senses, “Black” is less than desirable. Both implications are very fitting to your author’s experiences of this particular Black Friday.

         

** I **

I awoke to a pounding on the front door. It was still dark out and it took a second to sort out why my bed was bouncy and the room felt oddly echoey and lifeless. The answers came to mind between thumps on the house’s door. I was on my air mattress, not the comfy down of the bed back at our oak-haven, which meant that I was in our rental house in Athens. We still had not spent the time or money to furnish the place, hence the echo. It seemed lifeless to me because our oaken tree-house—to which I had become quickly accustomed—was in fact a living, dryad possessed, tree. Plus, the only other member of my group in the rental ranch style with me right then was Raion-ju, assuming that he had not crept off, in the night.

          Stumble-shuffling from my room, I cracked open the door to one of the other two bedrooms, the one in which Rai had been. The person at the front door knocked again. Rai was a big black man, easily six-foot-six and built like a linebacker. Fully clothed, Rai lay curled with his back in the far corner, he wore jeans, a black t-shirt, and grey socks, his steel-toed biker-boots were in easy reach. It was the only outfit that I had seen the lad wear in the weeks since he had bought them at Wal-Mart, though he did often also carry a backpack which might contain identical additional attire. In spite of the clothing, Rai looked more like a sleeping panther than a huddled man. An impression exacerbated, because Raion-ju’s True Fae Keeper had reshaped him into spirit-toughed with triangular cat-ears, iridescent mint-green slit-pupilled eyes, fangs, and claws.

          The constantly curios parts of my jumbled mind mused on the words which I had so recently added to my every-day vocabulary, True Fae, Keeper, spirit-touched. There were many synonyms for both the impossible-glorious, infinite-terrible Bright One Masters, as well as their enslaved—once upon a time, human—changelings. The various titles rolled around the back of my head, free associating, although all my groggy fore-brain could process was how hard it was to imagine what it was like, less than three weeks ago, when I had considered such things to be make-believe.

          Raion-ju did not wake up at my intrusion, or his eyes did not open and his breathing remained deep and steady. On the other hand, the articulated pointy ears pivoted to point at me and Rai’s nostrils flared. I considered that I could get a brisk wake-up jolt of wintery chill, merely by entering within arms reach of Rai’s phlegmatic faery aura. Then I realized that I was smarter than to enter the den of a panther-man, when he might wake started, or merely choose to teach me a lesson about privacy. I closed the door, as quietly as I could.

          At our ranch-style house’s banging front-door, I ran my perpetually tan hand through my light brown and blond-streaked, mop of wavy hair, exposing the tips of my equally tan pointed-ears. Then, I opened the door and found myself greeting two uniformed police officers and a gust of thirty-something degree late-November morning air. The chill gave my the jump-start which I had predicted and I flashed on how stupid I had just been. I had just opened the door to an unidentified knocker, like Sean Tallwind had done and the redcaps had snatched him, beat him, and trussed him up.

          My… well, gang is really only accurate description, had slaughtered seven out of eight of the redcap gang which had been menacing us, just the night before. I honestly had no reason to believe that the lone surviving ‘cap would not show up to exact vengeance, or that there were not more of them.

          As the icy pre-dawn air cut through the entrance, one of the errant parts of me wondered if my commune should get a screen-door, then started arguing with another part of me which though that furniture was far more important. Meanwhile, breaths puffed out visibly, between me and the cops. The dark haired man stood full in the weak porch light, his light haired partner was back a bit but still well illuminated.

          My second thought, as I blinked sleepily at the officers, was “Act dumb, Tummy. Nothing good ever came from being clever around authority.”

          "Uh, hi, um, officers," I said slowly, leaning forward a little, using the inward opened door to prop myself up and looked around the neighborhood. I discarded the impulse to make a 'was I sleeping too fast' joke and went with, "can I help you, uh, officers?"

          The closer dark-haired cop, the one that had been pounding on the door, made introductions, "Good morning sir, I am Officer Green and this," a nod to the other man, without taking eyes off of me, "is Officer Ericson."

          Both men were white and a bit over six-feet tall with pale eyes and clean shaven faces. Brush-cut blond Ericson stood with his hands on his hips. Green was older by five or six years, maybe in his early thirties, he took out a notepad and pencil. Both men wore standard dark navy-blue uniforms, including thickly insulated bomber jacket, guns holstered to their right hips, and the typical flat short brimmed hats that would conceal a bold spot, but left the rest of the head exposed. I also noted that their patrol car was parked in our driveway.

          Officer Green then asked if I was Fetch-Tom. In fact, Green used my full and True Name, the one which my mother put on my birth certificate. True Names can be used against… well, everyone, however spirit-touched were particularly susceptible. Thus, dear reader, I shall omit instances of my True Name. “Fetch-Tom“ will suffice as an identifier for differentiating the doppelganger which was masquerading as the mortal me at the time.

          "Huh?" I said, hoping my face did not betray the furious speed of my thoughts. "No, du… I mean, no sir. My name’s Tom, but I'm Tom White."

          Green and Ericson exchanged skeptical glances. Green looked back to me, "You are not Fetch-Tom?"

          "Nope, sorry" I shook my head, still pretending to use the door for support. I widened my eyes a bit and asked in a conspiratorial tone, "What'd this other Tom guy do?"

          Both men ignored my question. Green asked a new question, "Do you own a 2002 black Ford Festiva?"

          I blinked, "No, sir, I don't own a car at all." I lied, knowing full well that my 2002 black Festiva was locked in the garage, just a few yards away. I also knew that the vehicle had been purchased in my True Name. So, I only hoped that the cops had not been able to see clearly through the tiny windows, high up the garage wall, because if I were them I would have checked that, before banging on the front door.

          "Where were you last night between ten-PM and midnight?" Green's green eyes maintained a flatness which he must have practiced in a mirror.

          "Uh," I tried to act like I was thinking about it, I exhaled long and slow, "That must have been after dinner, right? So, mostly just driving around."

          "You just said you don't have a car." Green verbally jumped at my apparent slip and pointed a pencil at me. "Can we have a look in your garage?"

          _Dammit,_ I attempted to hide my panic by rubbing the sleep from my face. I really wanted to nip that sort of questioning in the bud. After the garage, Green was sure to ask to come into the house, then about the lack of furniture, then for my ID. I thought my fake “Thomas White” drivers license was good, I just did not want to test it against police scrutiny. So, I tapped into that extra-dimensional bladder-like sensation I had behind my eyes and chest, drawing enough wyrd to cast a few glamours. For Green and Erikson I dolled out a Fickle Fortune to hinder their chances of success, I hoped it would make them forget to ask certain questions. On me, I cast Fairest Tongue and Fortune’s Favor, enhancing my own luck as well as my overall charm and believability. Thus, words started to slide from my mouth, without me fully directing the thoughts behind them. "There's nothing in the garage and my roommate's got the key. Besides, I didn't say that I was the driver, me and Jessie and Gary where in Mark's car." Names and faces from Fetch-Tom's list of FaceBook friends popped into my head. "Mark's the dude that was driving; he's probably the guy you want to be talking to." I stopped myself from sarcastically adding "at ass-crack o'clock in the A of M."

          "Hmm." Green jotted a note. "And while your friend Mark was driving you around, did you all stop by O'Malley's bar?"

          I screwed up my face in fake thought, "uh, nope, not that I can recall. We mighta drove by at some point, but the name’s not familiar, so I don't think I saw a sign for… uh, O'Malley's?"

          Officer Green pursed his lips and made another note. Ericson was frowning slightly, but otherwise had not altered his stance. Green asked "And what are the last names of your friends from last night?" I could only thank my magically modified luck, that the names arrived in my head, as my slipshod memory had to pull them from only a couple of viewings, over a week earlier. Then, Green asked, "And why was your group driving around on Thanksgiving?"

          "I don't know, that was the one question I had been ready for, it was the reason I had claimed to have been out at all. Back when I was a normal lad, attending the University of Ohio, I had class with several students that were far from relatives or any other options. So, I co-opted what I had overheard back then, “nothing else to do really, I guess. I mean, it's like all our families are in other cities and the rest of our friends with their own families. And on the holiday most places were closed and stuff, so we were mostly just bored, ya know?"

          "What sort of car did you say you were in?" Officer Green asked while making yet another note.

          "Uh," I rubbed my crystalline amber eye with the knuckles of my right hand, "I don't think I said. Uh, Mark's car is dark grey or black… it's old and kinda scratched up so the color’s hard to tell… uh, it's his dad's old car… it's like, whadda-ya-call-it," I flapped my hand uncertainly, "a mid size car."

          I was especially proud of my acting as if I did not know car types and models. It was the part of the lie which separated “Tom White” from Fetch-Tom. Plus, it gave me something related to the police visit, to think about. Thus, keeping me present in the moment.

Meanwhile, the perversely distractible parts of my brain reflected on how I looked. In mirrors I saw a tan elf, who should be modeling beachwear. Yet, I knew Officers Green and Erikson, saw the barely altered Masque of my former self—two inches taller at an even six-foot, gangly/lanky frame, darker-brown unkempt hair, normal ears, brown eyes, and looking as if I was in my early thirties, instead of late teens. Only the preternatural tan of Summerfire’s Grace seeped through to what mortals saw of me. If these two officers did speak to Fetch-Tom, they would think that we were twins, except for the pale skin and body art which my imposter had featured in his FaceBook pics.

          Grace, wyrd, glamour, and Masque, were all more of those new words in my expanding vocabulary. Most of them were related to faery magic, with glamours being the actual spell-like abilities spirit-touch had learned during their time in captivity. The Masque was rare as an ancient glamour-bargain struck, which protected all things fae from the perceptions of un-changed humans. To an extent, at any rate, reflections had special rules, as did things left behind, like footprints. However, such peculiarities had to be expected from the pernicious governing force known as the Gyr—yet another new vocabulary word.

          Some terrible, thrill seeking, self punishing, fanciful part of me always flared up when I considered the masque, especially around normal people. I knew that with a little effort of will and a pinch of wyrd, I could drop my Masque and reveal my true fae appearance to the police officers. The looks on their faces would be priceless. Then, the echo of Rosa the Baker’s voice found its way through the whirling clutter of my thoughts.

          “Never remove the Masque.” The tiny-horned tattoo-faced lass had stressed. “It hides you from the Folk, as much as the mortals. Dropping it is as good as ringing a bell and calling the Bright Ones.”

So, I understood that my impulse to prank the cops with a Masque drop was like the feeling of driving at eighty miles-per-hour down an expressway and having an urge to veer into the concrete median. Plus, I had researched the phenomena and turned up a few accounts of mortals catching and dissecting the un-Masqued spirit-touched. Though, I was not sure that I believed the Area 51 references.

          "Do you know the make or model?" Mr. Green’s gruff monotone pulled my wandering thoughts back to my present.

          "Uh, not really," my deception grew, "I never really got into cars… it had that, uh like pentagram hood thingy." I held my hand up almost making an okay symbol. "so, that's a Chevy right?"

          The semi-formal interrogation went around like that for fifteen minutes or so, lots of repetition trying to catch me out in a lie. Yet, no progression to more specifics or tangential details, either. It helped that I tended to be perceived as innocent, childlike, and gullible—at least on first impressions—Masque or not. Even so, I felt confident that my glamours were working.

My only concerned was that the “whimsical” Gyr would end the magical effect, before the police finally left. Although, I did not really believe the Gyr cared, any more than the ocean or microwaves could care. The Gyr was simply an imperceptible forces which ebbed, flowed, and pooled, according to some as yet unquantifiable set of criteria.

          Plus, I was growing more physically uncomfortable in just my red-flannel pajamas and sweat-socks. Not that either policeman showed any signs of sympathy, as I started to shiver and cupping my hands to blow on them. I was sorely tempted to cast another glamour to ward off the chill, however I believed the mundane veracity of my actual discomfort lent credence to my performance.

          In return, the cops were not at all forthcoming with any details, even when I asked questions. Though, of course, I did not push. Eventually, both men seemed satisfied that they did not have enough grounds on which to arrest or detain me further. So, Green thanked me for my cooperation, then duo got into their Ford Police Interceptor Sedan (Torus with a Mustang engine) and drove off. I did not linger in the doorway to watch them depart.

          By the time I showered and dressed, my jewel-like irises had settled back to my baseline orange-gold from the agitated red of the interrogational. Amongst the many changes I had forced upon me, my beautiful-vile Keeper Aeolian had scrubbed and polished my eyes to clearest crystal. However, through Summerfire’s Grace color was mine again. Specifically, the mostly warm colors of amber gemstones, varying with my mood. More upset and my eyes grow redder, shock and the pale to near white, I was even on a date a few days earlier wherein my reflection showed a pleased sunny-yellow.

After dressing, I deflated my air-mattress and worked it into its vinyl sleeve, folded my sheets, stuffed the bedding into a large trash bag, and packed my toiletries into my backpack. All the while, I contemplated my next moves. I collected my few remaining items of value from my Festiva, also into my dark-green Wal-Mart backpack. Luckily the garage was attached to the house, so I entered unseen from possible watching police. I still kept glancing to the small windows, though. I stowed what gear that could not carry n the garage's rafters.

          By then I was certain that Raion-ju must have heard the police pounding on our door and he left me to cope all alone. So, I returned the favor and left Rai alone in the house to deal with whatever new might arrive. Although, I did tape a note to engineer’s Suzuki motorcycle, reminding him to lock the garage if he left, so as to protect my Festiva as much as possible.

          I left through the back-door, hopping through several neighbor's yards, before stepping onto the sidewalk and strolling to the nearest bus stop. All with my pack on my back and a fairly cumbersome trash-bag in my hands. The bag was full of sawed-off redcap baseball-bats and their ZipLocked blood-soaked hats. My primary concern was getting the evidence/trophies out of the mundane world as soon as possible. After that, I would return to the issue of my implicated vehicle. So, I took the first bus that arrived, then worked out what transfers I need to make in order to get as close as possible to Ariadne’s Sheaves & Leaves.

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

** II **

The sun was barely up in the crisp grey sky, when I finally reached Sheaves & Leaves. The bus had let me off a half mile from the tea and book shop, so I walked the distance in the thirty-something degree temperature. Still uncertain as to whether I was being tailed by the police, I continued to let my dark-grey winter-jacket serve as my only protection from the weather, rather than call on my Summer’s Embrace glamour. I worried that not reacting to the cold would have made me look even more suspicious. Thus, I was even more pleased and relieved than usual as I entered the warmth and comfort of the Victorian era converted-home which served as a spirit-touched neutral-ground gathering place.

          Although, crossing the covered porch did require consciously ignoring the unsettling masses of spider-webs overhead. The webbing clogged the entire awing with impenetrable greyish-white, like an organic drop ceiling. Even though, I had never witnessed movement within the sticky canopy, I was nervous about the size and quantity of spiders needed to maintain such a lair.

From the exterior smells of late-autumn’s dilute and distant wood smoke, faintly sweet rotting leaves, and hit of icy precipitation, I passed into the mouth- watering bouquet of a bakery in full production. A contented sigh escaped me, as the warmth enveloped me, while I loosened my jacket and removed my hat. I seriously considered simply finding one of the storefront’s empty wing-back’s and curling up to nap in the delicious yeasty-sugary aroma.

          “Hello, uh, Philomena,” I greeted the cute blond behind the antique reception/cashier desk. “How was, um, your Thanksgiving?” In spite of my self-consciousness around pretty ladies, I could not help but try and get the clerk to favor me with her delightful lisp.

          Philomena was also apparently just arriving for the day, standing over her large desk, chair not yet even pulled back. The elfin lass wore a smart tweed skirt-suit and crisp blouse, of a style common to secretaries in movies of the‘40’s. Philomena was placing a pale-blue tea service for one and a plate of miniature muffins on the desk. I was struck with the realization that it was the first time that I had seen the pixie-ish woman out of her chair; she was taller than I would have guest, close to five-foot-seven, even allowing for high-heels.

.         “It wasth lovely,” Philomena looked up and replied, smiling back at me, her large glasses half steamed over from her tea. “Thank you again for the treatsth.”

“Uh, my pleasure, uh, to be sure.” I half bowed and moved further into the establishment.

Having achieved my goal of hearing the Philomena’s adorably enticing lisp, I did not dare linger. Partially, because in her position I would merely want to tuck into my tea and pastries, while they were still hot. More so, I was sure to inadvertently offend the pretty lass, if I loitered long enough to let my mouth run. Realistically, I will intend playful banter, unfortunately experience has taught me that most people interpret it as malicious teasing, or just rude. I chewed my lip, wondering if I could train myself to be less awkward, or if I would forever need to rely on my Fairest Tongue glamour. On the other hand, being able to rile people up easily also had its perks.

Ignoring the rooms filled with mundane mostly-used books, I passed into and through the tea-room/café. The space was quiet as if in anticipation, the eclectic array of chairs and stool were neatly pushed up to the various small tables. The pastry display-case was only half full. I was saved from having to risk my foot-in-mouth tendencies with the exotic and charming Rosa. The blue and white day-chef could only be heard bustling somewhere back in the kitchen.

On the other hand, it would have been nice to get a tea and some muffins of my own. I hefted the contraband filled garbage-bag and grumbled to myself, “Not out of real world jurisdiction, yet.”

I marched to the far side of the dining area, lifted the red velvet rope which demarcated the entrance to Ariadne’s rare-books collection and let myself in. The enticing aromas baking faded quickly, replaced with the comforting smells and silence of thousands of old books. As a steadfast bibliophile, the slightly-musty dusty atmosphere gave me a boost of energy, almost as vitalizing as breakfast might have been.

It took me much longer to traverse the rare-books sections than the mundane exterior rooms, even without pausing to chat to anyone. The bookstore was merely a mortal front for the spirit-touched Freehold, so the red-velvet rope also indicated the threshold of a magic portal which led from the World of Man into a parallel extra-dimensional landscape, known as the Briar, the Edge Maze, the Inbetween, the Thorns, and others. As such, the rare fae texts filled a née endless labyrinth of rooms and halls, covering easily eighty-five percent of every available surface. Every time I walked through the ubiquitous stacks, I longed for the leisure to explore every inch and volume.

Instead of the loving exploration, I made a hasty circuit of the sections and tucked-away reading areas which my colleagues tended to frequent. Not for the first time, I offered silent thanks to the Freehold for not having a magically altering internal stricture. Unsurprisingly, none of my gang of allies were present. If not for Green and Erikson, I too would be sleeping of the grim events of the previous night’s adventure. Though, I did find myself wondering again just how grim my associates actually felt their actions had been.

My impromptu tour of the rare-books archive helped calm my agitated mind, though. As whirling mental pieces settled, a few thoughts clicked more clearly together. Had the police really been following me, then they would have picked me up as soon as they saw me carrying the suspicious trash-bag. Plus, at this point, if the police came to get me in Sheave & Leaves, the fae ownership strictly forbade violence on the premises and only members were allowed in the rare books “room”. So, in a worst case scenario, all that I would have to do was not fight and run into the members only area. On the highly unlikely chance that Johnny-law could pursue, then I merely need to get to the Thorny Briar, dump my bag, and make a run for my group’s haven. I licked my lips with some lingering consternation, as I was coming to understand how much I really did not want to have to give up the proof of our success over the redcaps.

My stomach settled the issue, so I returned to the tea room and indulged the siren smells of the fresh baked goods. The nut and apricot muffin that I purchased was so large that I could not get my fingers to touch around it, using both hands.

A few normal people had found their way into the café. The display case also still had a couple of blank spots for trays. So, the fairly kinetic Rosa did not have time for anything beyond the most cursory pleasantries. At least I was able to position myself, with super-muffin and chestnut tea, is such a way as to watch the smartly dressed baker lass.

I smiled at Rosa’s active demeanor and unusual attractiveness. As a raven-haired petit Latina, the chef was prettier than most. However the pattern of almost glossy blue and white rhomboids which Rosa’s Keeper had tattooed or infused over her while skin (at east as far as I could see), gave her features an intriguing living puzzle or mosaic quality. Even though, I had only ever seen Rosa in bright and starched chef’s whites, I wondered if she wore her dark hair tucked under a classic mushroom-pleated toque mostly to show off the two thumb-sized ebon horns sprouting from her forehead.

As usual at Sheaves & Leaves, I enjoyed the taste sensations of my breakfast. After at least fourteen years away from the mundane world and its genetically tweaked and chemically infused food supply, such fare always tasted off. Even organically grown meats and vegetables had detectible lingering hints of man’s manipulations. I doubted that my pallet would ever readjust. The only drawback to the Freehold’s food was that many of their ingredients were sourced from the mystical Briar, which left the potential for unforeseen Gyr fueled side effects. So far, Rosa had not steered me wrong, yet I remained generally cautious.

By the time that I was about half-way through my gargantu-muffin, Gavin Granitbane came through the red-velvet member’s portal and approached me. Gavin was the next largest member of my “clinical trial” survivors group, after Raion-ju. Mr. Granitbane had been a six-foot-two white guy, in his early forties and an Athens firefighter with an enthusiastic body-building hobby. The naturally gregarious fellow had been politic, if not humble, about his three year stint as a featured member of the annual fireman’s calendar. Although, that had been over fourteen years earlier for what had become Gavin’s Masque. The figure that loomed over me, was easily two-inches taller and a rough-edged, pebbly, red-orange hard-clay living sculpture which only gave an impression of what Gavin had once been. The earthen fellow also had shackle-wide bands of yellower-clay around his wrists and neck, short cropped sandy (as in sandstone) brown hair, and marble eyes blue circles set into pink-veined white.

Like Rai, and most of our group, Gavin relied solely on Wal-Mart for his “fashion” needs. Also like the cat-lad, Mr. Granitbane sported one outfit—classic red lumberjack flannel-shirt with sleeves rolled up, blue jeans, and brown leather hiking boots, occasionally with a dull-grey down jacket. I was more confident that Gavin, like many of the others, had simply bought packs of identical shirts and pants. Still, it was like living with a bunch of cartoon characters.

Even though I knew Mr. Granitbane was good natured and protective of the members of our gang, having him loom over me felt ominous. A feeling exacerbated by the memory of having watched the big block of muscles kill at least two people… well ogres, with his bare stony-hands, less than twelve hours earlier. I fully believe that the redcaps would have killed us and that Gavin and my other allies were acting in self defense. However, no matter how monstrous the ‘caps were, they had also been as much transformed humans as Gavin or myself; the copious amounts of blood was proof enough of that, for me.

Although, I had technically participated in the fight, I had barely hit any of the foes, let alone slaughtering any of them. Yet, the death and bodies had left me shaking, nauseous, horrified, and the like. However worse than that, none of my cohorts had appeared at all phased by what they had done. Thus, I worried that I was part of a gang of psychopaths, as bad as the redcaps and how much retribution would I suffer, if I attempted to leave. On the other hand, had the redcap’s brutality been magically contagious? If so, has it worn off? No matter what, Gavin’s shadow and smoky scent brought me back to how nervous I was with his aplomb.

          At least, Gavin was not so favored by Autumnearth that the Grace of a wood-smoke scented aura was too acrid. Like Raion-ju’s phlegmatic chill, Gavin’s melancholic Grace was hardly noticeable with looking for it. I let a smirk of pride curl my lips, as I considered that if the rocky chap had been as committed to his melancholic principles, as I was to my choleric ones, then I may have choked on the faery smell.

“Hey ya, Tommy,” the rocky-man squeezed and rubbed my shoulder in a geologic grip of greeting. “I’m glad I found you here, I wasn’t looking forward to a bus ride.”

          “’Morning Gavin, what’s up?” I rubbed some feeling back into my shoulder. The orange fellow was not always fully aware of his strength, which also raised my unease-meter.

“Tegan suggested I see if I could find you and the others, that aren’t already here.” Gavin eyed the remainder of my muffin-a-saurus with his blue marbles. “Her, Sean, ‘Runner, and Wade are already in there.” Square-ish head jerked towards the rare-books doorway.

I nodded understanding. I must have just missed my colleagues earlier. Since I was more relaxed, though, I saw no need to rush. I held my plate up to Gavin. “You want the rest of this, while I finish my tea?”

The muscle man smiled, accepting the plate with a “Thanks, pal”. Then Gavin remained standing, plate in one hand, while he ate with the other. Had it been someone else, I would have taken the stance as an indicator of urgency. However, I had come to learn through observation that Mr. Granitbane always preferred to strike a pose, no matter how innocuous the setting.

          “What’s the plan in the stacks?” I asked and drank some tea.

          Gavin swallowed before answering. “Last ditch effort to find an alternative to the Childs Rite.”

          I nodded again and sipped more tea. My group very much disliked the local fae court’s plans to sacrifice a mortal child in a ritual intended to protect the other mortal children from the Folk. Even though our collective were new to the changeling life and not affiliated with the Court of the Midwestern Territories, we had taken it on ourselves to sway their decision. Partially we believed that the more experienced spirit-touched were just too jaded and simply needed to be reminded of basic humanity. Also, the Child’s Rite had been proposed by Red Rhea, a zealous visiting scholar, who did not seem capable of recognizing any possibility beyond what she had already decided.

          I say “we”, however in regards to the Child’s Rite, it was really Tegan Bramblerose, Mr. Granitbane, and myself that expressed any real concern for the child in question’s wellbeing. Iron Wade the Man of Steal and Sean Tallwind were generally contrarians by nature that happen to pick Red Rhea’s cause to oppose, for the time being. Freerunner just sort of followed along with the majority of our cabal, I believe so that we would never exile him for not being useful. I could not say with any certainty that Raion-ju had paid any attention to these concerns as we had debated them over the last two days.

          Technically, we shared our haven and our rental property with two others, well at least the haven. Amaryllis was the dryad that inhabited our Briar-located tree-house. I did not think that Amy could leave that clearing, so she was not really a member of the mundane rental. On the other hand, Dark Sol was rarely around, so she may not actually have been part of our collective, either. Which would not bother me at all, since Sol, like all darklings, was creepy and fixated on the morbid. Not to mention that Sol seemed more than a little selfish.

          I convinced those irrelevant musings to recede, while my thoughts about what Gavin had said danced to the forefront. I was not sure what my allies hoped to accomplish with more research. We had spent the better part of two days looking for an alternative, even going to a Duke in a different fae territory for a first hand account. The best our efforts had revealed was that the child used in the ritual may only need to be maimed and terrified, instead of murdered. We did also believe the child could be healed afterwards, at least. Thus, our research assuaged some of the horror that I perceived in the whole affair.

          If we had another year, or two, in the Freeholds archive, then I could imagine possibly finding an alternative. However, since the Child’s Rite was scheduled for later the same day, I was skeptical, at best. Although, even if more research did not turn up anything more useful, it was still a way to feel as if I was doing something to help the unknown kid. Plus, I just liked reading the old books and scrolls.

Therefore, I looked up to Gavin, “Well, I’m on board for the effort. Rai was at the rental house, a couple of hours ago. But, uh, I’d call and leave a message on his phone.” I half-shrugged. “Odds are, he won’t join the research either way, so you should save yourself the trip.”

          My towering companion nodded and grunted through his (my) muffin, indicating that I made a good point.

          “I doubt Sol’s worth even looking for. She hied off with Jack so fast last night, I was surprised that she even bothered helping in the fight.” I did not try to hide the bitterness in my voice.

If Gavin even noticed my tone, he ignored it, in favor of imagining the best of all of his chosen teammates. It did not even matter that our group barely acted as a team. Gavin shrugged and bobbled his head noncommittally, as he finished the breakfast treat. Which seemed to mean, “Whatever’s easiest for me, I’ll go with that.”

          I bussed my table and waited, while Gavin stepped onto the porch, for a cell signal. As expected, Rai did not answer his phone. Then, Mr. Granitbane led me through the rare books to a decent sized room with a large, central table, at which our party had claimed a study space.

          Tegan Bramblerose and Iron Wade the Man of Steal were sitting at the table, skimming through a few books from a small stack.

was the third biggest guy in our collective, as tall as Gavin yet sixty or seventy pounds lighter. The man had been a thirty-something, white, fencing instructor and recent divorcée with dark brunette hair and blue eyes. Wade came away from the Lands Beyond the Briar, looking close to sixty and a little taller than when he had been taken, with a hash-work of fine pale scars running up both arms—like long lace-gloves over leathery skin. Iron Wade was also heavily wind-burned, although he retained his athletic fencer’s build. The fellow sported a perpetual haunted or dour expression, exacerbated by the dull almost-tarnished metallic quality of his now grey-eyes.

As with seeing Gavin, Iron Wade caused flashes of the redcap massacre to resurface in my thoughts. I scowled and wondered if it Wade saber opening fatal wounds and been worse than Gavin and Rai’s back-breaking blows. I mentally grasped at any peripheral memories, to block out the more gruesome ones. Thus, I found myself wondering again why college educated Wade, and all of my allies for that matter, had settled for their limited monetary lots. Iron Wade had merely signed on to do under-the-counter oil changes at a Jiffy-Lube. I had experienced great success with only a little careful glamour use, in Las Vegas. Even though, Iron Wade probably knew different glamours, the idea of submitting to menial mundane labor, at that point was unconscionable to be.

          On the other hand, even if Iron Wade had so little regard for worldly wealth, he had apparently bought a new shirt. The garment still looked like a-Mart bargain, though, grey long-sleeved pullover with a collar. Wade kept the sleeves down as far over his scars as possible.

All of which I had taken in over a few seconds, before I could wrench my attention over to the far more aesthetically Miss Bramblerose. The petite lass had been an athletic ROTC student, with a distracting mid-west brunette girl-next-door figure and features. Even eschewing make-up and favoring boyish cloths, Tegan’s beauty had been notable. Unlike many spirit-touched, Tegan’s Keeper seemed to have chosen her for those looks, though they were not quite to the Bright One’s desires. So, Tegan had been buried alive, forced to grow, pulled, pruned, plucked, and the process repeated. Thus, by the time she escaped, Tegan was a bloomwell, still five-foot-three, even more lithe, with preternatural vivacious beauty infused into her stunning curve, luxurious wavy auburn-hair, bright wide-eyes with irises of crystalline emerald, elegant tapered ears, a heart-shaped face, and lightly-freckled alabaster skin. The alluring lass owed allegiances to Springair, as proven in the Grace of her green eyes and magically renewing cosmetics—on this occasion, as the would-be jock sat absentmindedly twirling a silken auburn-lock, around one perfectly manicured finger, her bedroom eyelids were weighted with a dusty application of pale-green mascara, and she sucked lightly on the right half of her lower rose-petal colored cupie-doll lip.

Even though Tegan was also devoted to Wal-Mart’s utilitarian collection, her souped-up voluptuous form denied any attempts to tone it down. At least, the bloomwell bombshell had put some variety into her cartoon-character-style uniform. In this case, Tegan wore her green and blue flannel shirt, buttoned to collar, as always, and cuffs and tucked into her tight jeans, steel-toed hiking boots were laced tightly to mid-calf. With a book in front of her, Tegan was just a pair of glasses away from a perfect naughty-repressed librarian and farm-girl fantasy mash-up.

As if Tegan’s natural, supernatural, and Grace enhance was not unfair and distracting enough, as a bloomwell, she also had a perpetual faery aura of flowery scent. The aromatic cloud was an ongoing glamour which caused all within I to bend to the bloomwell’s will. It was like Tegan was the only queen bee in a hive, wherever she went.

I took a shallow breath, reminding myself that the pheromone-like power was weaker the less Tegan concentrated on getting her way and that, even then, it was not infallible. Although, I was not sure that I had yet successfully resisted Miss Bramblerose’s directives. I closed my eyes for a moment, to remind myself of the facts which helped me build up that resistance. Foremost, Tegan Bramblerose had modestly claimed to be a black belt of at least one martial art and her high-kicking prowess at the redcap rumble certainly supported the claim. Do, the deceptively delicate woman could definitively put down any untoward advances. Second, we had gone through the trauma of abduction and escape together, very recently. So, I felt more of a sibling attachment to all of us “clinical trial” survivors… Alright, not siblings, in Tegan’s case, yet I did try to be chivalrous. Last and probably most significant, as far as I knew, I was the only member of our group to have gone through the necessary ordeals to have learned the secrets of the Fairest Tongue glamour. So, I kind of felt like Miss Bramblerose aromatic aura stole some of my thunder.

          I made my hellos and asked what our new research plan was. Iron Wade acknowledged my arrival, without looking up from the leather-bound tome before him. Tegan held her place in her book, with a delicate digit, and met my jewel eyes with her own. “As I fell asleep last night, I thought that we might try looking up other methods, to repel the Folk. Rather than just focusing on overcoming the Child’s Rite.”

          “Uh, sure,” I nodded thoughtfully, “okay, I see how, uh, we might get a different set of information that way.” I had already demonstrated that I was by far the most adept researcher in our collective.

          “Oh, good,” Tegan’s appreciative grin was devastating. “Sean and ‘Runner are making initial selections, I figure you should help them.” She said to me, then looked at the red-orange slab of Gavin expectantly.

          “Sounds good.” I confirmed, then left my pack, coat, and trash-bag with them, while they sorted out Mr. Granitbane’s next job.

I crossed paths with my book gathering cohorts, in relatively short order, and we three quickly settled on a methodology to prevent too much overlapping of efforts. I was surprised to discover how much basic mystic, occult, or arcane lore each of my fellows displayed. Sean Tallwind claimed to have picked up snippets as a private investigator, although I remained skeptical of those credentials. I had also learned that the shadow-eater which had re[laced Sean as Fetch-Milton had gone on to become a fringe cult leader during our fourteen years away from the mortal realm. So, I suspected that Mr. Tallwind had come by his knowledge a bit more dubiously. I was unable to get Freerunner to say how he familiar with things of ritual and arcanum, though I suspected that he was recalling elements of his captivity, rather than mortal life experience. Not that I was sure that I would have understood the cute mumbling-lad anyway. Of course, either of my allies could have been translating their knowledge in the same manner as I had been. For it turned out that fairytales and legends were remarkably accurate to actual spirit-touched life. So, the same comparative mythology classes which had drawn me into a Lit major, served well with the fae lore research.

After each of us gatherers had an armful of promising prospects, we would return to the study table. Then, our whole group of six scanned the material, for potentially useful information. As ‘Runner, Sean, or I found a likely source passage, we stuck in a piece of scrap paper as a book mark. Once all the new material had been noted, ‘Runner, Sean, and I went back to the stacks for more books and left Tegan, Gavin, and Wade to do a closer reading of the marked works.

The hardest part for me was not just voraciously reading as much of everything as possible. Even though we were not finding much by way of successful Folk banishments or wards, I did come across many interesting snippets which filled in other aspects of spirit-touched society that I had been investigating earlier. For example, I had seen the term “gnarlings” amongst others for describing certain fae, yet finally found a passage which clarified that such fae were not specific types, such as bloomwells, dryads, or redcaps. Instead, like darklings, gnarlings was used as a broad categorization for changelings with a particular set of predilections. Only where darklings sought or made things morbid and macabre, gnarlings were persnickety procedure-oriented pessimists. Spirit-touched forced by their keeper to do precise task, over and over again, tended to develop a gnarling outlook along with whatever preternatural skill came from the impossible repetition. Since the Folk were renowned for the relentless, brutal, and innovative ways in which They would beat the particular skills into Their gnarling servants, extensive scarring was common amongst Miens of that group.

Mien was a vocabulary word that I had know from school, however it came up a lot more often than I had been used to, when reading spirit-touched literature. Mien had clearly been adopted by the fae community to describe their true appearances behind the Masques. Or, possibly, the mortals had misappropriated the word’s faery origin.

So, I was pleased to the connection to Sean Tallwind and Iron Wade the Man of Steal. Although, I was not sure why being able to lump the two sour-pusses together, made their general negativity more tolerable. It was probably just dismiss them and their attitudes, if I could file it under gnarling, rather than wonder if there was any deeper meaning or value. Regardless, Wade and Sean both fit the gnarling stereo-type in mien as well as demeanor.

In Mr. Tallwind’s case, his mortal self had been, and his Masque still showed, a late-forty year-old five-foot-ten white man with skin weathered from too much tanning, brown graying hair and brown eyes, he had had the paunch of a middle aged man who ate too much fast food and sat around more than he exercised. From the fae perspective, though, Sean was five seven, sported extensive burn scars along the whole left side of his body and face, which caused him to limp. Tallwind’s hair had become stringy and his eyes were dull as drying mud. The unfortunate fellow’s skin sagged and wrinkled—as if he had gained then quickly lost a several-hundred pounds of fat—and his fingers were all disproportionately long and thin.

Also like Iron Wade (and thankfully) Sean wore his plain white dress shirt’s long-sleeves buttoned to cover as much of his unpleasant appearance as possible, along with the nee required blue jeans and hiking boots. Even more than me, the spindle-fingered fellow was out of reach of his own large Wal-Mart backpack, stuffed with all sorts of tools and oddments.

Thinking about Sean Tallwind inevitably made my head hurt with an un-resolvable contradiction to my perceptions, however. Even though it was faint, the crotchety gnarling had, like Tegan, somehow won a sanguine Grace; the gentle susurration of a spring shower could be heard when within a yard or two of Mr. Tallwind. Clearly Springair had seen in Sean a suitable dedication to visceral physical desires, though for the life of me I could not.

Such musing brought forth the more pleasant and understandable aspects of our troupe’s other sanguinely humored member, Freerunner. Similar to Sean, ‘Runner’s faery aura was Graced with a watery sound, though in his case it was a rushing river-rapids. The lad’s physique, twinkling eyes, and mischievous grin made it easy to see with what Springair had identified.

Freerunner had stayed five-ten and Caucasian with dark-brown hair, though, he had been overweight, with normal brown eyes. In captivity, ‘Runner had been sculpted into a sleek swimmers build, become hirsute to the point of furriness, grown long whiskers from either side of his now pug nose, with wide-spaced yellowish-black eyes, high set rounded ears, and a vestigial tail. Although, that last feature was only by Freerunner’s own report.

‘Runner had claimed to be a computer engineer, at least I thought he had, the otter-y lad mumbles and grumbled through every sentence, as if he was grinding it to mush or gargling the language. Since we escaped, however, the relatively timid man had mostly just driven a taxi around. Which I agreed was smart for securing a vehicle and job all at once, although I doubted he could be making much money in a town as small as Athens Ohio. Still better than changing oil or doing nothing, though, as the comparisons went.

Freerunner was collecting enough in fares to buy a less cartoony wardrobe. Yet another Wal-Mart outfit of hikers, jeans, and a shirt, however like Tegan and myself, the hirsute chap had more than one pair of pants and several colors of shirt. Svelt ‘Runner’s polo-shirt was sea-foam green and tight enough to showoff his expansive pecs.

While all six of us sat at the table and browsed through the generally handwritten volumes, I recounted my conversation with Officer Green. I concluded with an emotionless lament, “I have no idea what I’m going to do, uh, with my Festiva, of course. It’s, uh, got to be the only real connection between me and the crime scene.”

“Why don’t you just park it in your shadow-eater’s apartment lot?” Gavin suggested. The unfinished sculpture of a man had stopped reading while I spoke and was leaning back in his chair with his coarse hands behind his head—the better to flex his chest.

“Rai’s motorcycle and your taxi too, right?” Tegan nodded to ‘Runner.

Freerunner shrugged, and looked to Tallwind. Sean waved reedy fingers dismissively, “I used that No Trace glamour. Since I left in the cab it’ll obscure the details.”

I was apparently the only one of us interested to discover that Sean knew the same glamour as Gavin and Wade. Plus, neither of the other practitioners of that magic reacted to indicate that Sean was wrong about its effects.

Meanwhile, I was also processing my surprise at Mr. Granitbane’s suggestion; it was such an elegant solution. I had just not thought that any of my companions even remembered our imposter fetch-creatures, particularly Gavin as he was the only one of us who’s doppelganger had died before we escaped our enslavements. So, I brought the conversation back around, “I had to do a lot to get that Festiva. I’m not sure I can just throw it away.” Not to mention, how stabilizing being able to drive around had been for my psyche.

Iron Wade sat up, rubbing his leaden eyes with the heels of his abused hands, and shrugged, “I can help you procure another car.” His voice was dry and haggard like a smoke that had been stuck in the desert for a while. “Just pick a model from any low security parking lot.” The teeth of his sardonic grin looked like white-enameled machine parts.

I nodded, understanding that Iron Wade the Man of Steal had already demonstrated another of his glamours; one that opened any lock. Both Miss Bramblerose and Mr. Granitbane made sour faces at the suggested larceny, while I mulled it over.

“You know,” I rubbed my chin with my right index finger, “I saw on Fetch-Tom’s FaceBook; he has a fairly tricked out Mustang. If we timed it right, we could leave my Festiva there and drive off with his ride. Technically, both cars are registered to the same name, as well. So, it wouldn’t even really be stealing.”

Wade gave a half nod and half shrug. “Sure, seems plausible.”

My logic had appeased the goody-two-shoes. So, it was all I could do to hold back from running out to plant the Festiva at Fetch-Tom’s place. Since swapping cars would take more planning and timing, than simply dumping my Festiva would.

I allowed my curiosity about humors and their associated Graces to distract me from my vehicular conundrum. It was a fairly meditative process to allow my mind to unfocused enough to pick the subtle Graces of my allies apart. Especially when the Melancholic Wade and Gavin’s respective damp leaf and wood-smoke odors were so complimentary. Just as the other three’s sanguine auras were essentially related. I caught myself staring at Tegan, though, and had to shake concentration back into my head.

Perceiving Graces was easiest with unfocused observation. On the other hand, resisting a bloomwell’s mesmeric aroma required concentration.

Luckily, I had finished scanning my last selection and got up to collect more. On that head clearing round of book pulling, I also cam across Alistair Tomes, the collection’s OCD Head Archivist. The pencil thin elfin lad was my height with glossy ink-black hair pulled into a tight queue and a precisely trimmed Van Dyke. Alistair’s eyes were pools of liquid indigo in bleached-white orbs, while his skin was yellowy-brown parchment with black runic tattoos peaking from his collar to his cuffs. Mr. Tome’s attire was dapper and, of course, fastidious and starched. Thoroughly Victorian, I was especially jealous of the early-19th Century style, silver-buttoned black frock-coat.

I respected Alistair’s devotion to the rare books and scrolls. I also took pleasure in mimicking the archivists compulsive fussiness. Even so, I was able to cajole and flatter Alistair into some assistance with y group’s lackluster investigations, specifically as a sounding-board for what we had compiled thus far.

The only relevancy which my gang had uncovered was something called the Rite of Hospitality: a sort of lesser version of the Child’s Rite. The hospitality ritual protected individual homes with a suitable talisman charged to repel oath-breakers and untrue things (such as the conniving Folk). The talismans were fairly easy to come by: bowls of cream, evergreen boughs, salt, holly, bread, and so forth. The catch was that the talismans were all associated with one season or another and would need to be replaced every three months.

“So,” Tegan explained to Alistair, “we know it would be more time consuming. But, it could buy some time. While more research was dune into alternatives to child sacrifice.”

We had not mentioned any of the religious symbols which had also cropped up. Several of my colleagues had expressed that such faith-based objects had failed them in their captivity. Plus, we knew that Dark Sol and Raion-ju, had foraged successfully at the hospital’s chapel. So, our group discounted the idea that religion would protect mortals from the Folk, if it could not stop us.

Foraging was yet another fae re-appropriated word. Foraging meant to seek sources of wyrd, especially from humans, while “threshing” or “winnowing” indicated weather the act of gathering the mystical energy was actively provoked or more opportunistically accessed. Wyrd was like magic calories which fae could extrapolate from the dreams and desires of normal humans, then store and tap into for activating glamours.

“So, Red Rhea is set to slaughter, or at least brutalize, a kid for the Child’s Rite this evening.” Iron Wade’s rasping voice brought me out of my mental wanderings, as he redundantly reiterated our plan for Alistair. “And we get that is supposed to protect all of the kids in the territory from the Bright Ones.” He presented one hash-marked palm. “Alternatively, with some cooperative effort from all of the local spirit-touched, we could blanket the area’s homes; distributing the talismans for the Rite of Hospitality. Thus, protecting adults and children alike, without having to maim or kill an innocent.”

Alistair clearly did not like speaking about the Folk or the Child’s Rite, generating even more nervous ticks. So, I was entertained with the addition fodder for mimicry. “Obviously, the hospitality ritual would be favorable.” He touched each button on his shirt, waistcoat, and cuffs. “I’m sure most everyone here and at the court would agree. _If_ it could feasibly be accomplished.” Straighten cuff, then collar, then waistcoat, then frock lapels. “Having to address each dwelling one-by-one is daunting at best and Red Rhea was correct that the problem is at a point that must be address immediately, les the mortal authorities start to interfere with our livelihoods.” Patting of hair from forehead to queue, then sliding a finger along each eyebrow, right and left mustache, and smoothing of the goatee. “Convincing the mortal populous to perform the simple ritual for themselves, for fear of the Folk, is unlikely.” Check each button—shirt, waistcoat, and cuffs. “Plus, the mere attempt of convincing that many mortals of the need is likely to strain the Masque and draw even more Bright Ones, seeking both mortals and those of us that have already escaped.” Straiten cuffs, collar, etcetera.

          The response from our one-man test audience, was disappointing. After thanking Alistair for his insights, my group collected our various jackets, packs, and, in my case, trash-bag. We pooled pocket cash and sent a couple of our party to the tea room, to have Rosa fill a some picnic-baskets, while the rest of us awaited our brunch in the Victorian-style lounging garden. The expertly landscaped garden provided a view of the tangled Briar, while our cabal ate and discussed our options further.

Eventually, the six of us achieved a quorum that we must try to get the Hawk Wood Court of the Midwest Territories to forgo the Child’s Rite in favor of the Rites of Hospitality. Worst case, that we could imagine, was that we would fail and the Salamander Court would follow through with the Child’s Rite. Slightly less worse, we would convince the local fae to not kill the child and we could get the kid healed afterwards. Our best case speculation was that we would convince the spirit-touched of Hawk Wood and Ariadne’s Freehold to work together, every three months, surreptitiously enacting the hospitality ritual thousands of times over. As a collective force, the changeling community could probably canvas the whole area in a day—most likely hiding the talismans on properties in ways that the owners would not notice or disturb them. I was betting that some of the more “persuasive” spirit-touched could even convince large groups of the mortals to ward themselves, under some other pretense: placing out a bowl of salt in remembrance of the missing children, perhaps, or causing a suburban fad for holly sprig decorations.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

** III **

The next step, all six of us agreed, was to split up and talk to as many spirit-touched as possible, as quickly as possible. We especially hoped to reach the communities leaders, even if that meant indirectly. Our group’s two teams started as Tegan Bramblerose, our most persuasive member, leading Iron Wade the Man of Steal and Gavin Granitbane, our two melancholically humored members, to the Salamander Barrow Mound. Since the Hawk Wood Court was currently governed by fae of Autumnearth’s Graces, we speculated that our fencer and our ex-fireman would garner the most goodwill, therein. Considering the level of rhetoric and argumentation that I had experienced from the two men, my hopes lay largely with the no-nonsense bloomwell bombshell. Meanwhile, as the one of us who had spent the most time interacting with the members of Ariadne’s Freehold, I stayed with Freerunner and Sean Tallwind, our other two “arcanists”. Theoretically, the more studious and literary fae would be most savvy about the rituals which we were intending to discuss, thus it would be best if my team to sound as knowledgeable as we could. Of course, I was concerned that no one would understand ‘Runner, regardless.

          As Tegan’s trio departed into the wild growth of the Briar, I addressed my team as we stepped back into the Freehold. “Okay, um, so,” I clapped and rubbed my hands together, trying to generate some enthusiasm, “I think that we, uh, should split up and slip politely up to as many, um, members as we can each find. Then, uh, make our pitch for the Rite of Hospitality. I figure that should get a grass roots sort of thing, uh, going, So, um, as we convince others, then they’ll start helping us campaign.”

          Fuzzy Freerunner nodded absentmindedly and wandered back into the garden. I had too assume that was going to start with talking to the spirit-touched outside. On the other hand, Mr. Tallwind stared at me, with his dull-brown eyes, and shrugged lumpy loose-skinned shoulders… I wanted to light him on fire—Ariadne’s rules of conduct be dammed—Sean made me so mad.

It occurred to me, yet again, that I only had Tallwind’s word that he had ever a been a private-eye. Detectives had to talk to people, I just knew that they must have. Yet Sean seemed content to steadfastly avoid any such a task. I started piecing together the idea that the stick-fingered fart had actually been a delusional mental patient, only believing himself to have been a gumshoe, before Dr. Anwynn had enslaved us. Whatever, the case Sean’s motivation to help evaporated along with Tegan’s faery aroma.

I considered myself almost lucky, when I was at least able to get Mr. Tallwind to assist with carting our gang’s picnic baskets and dishes back to the café. Raion-ju even wandered in, while I was handing the supplies to Rosa. Rai was dressed as I had seen him that morning, of course, with the addition of his cheap feud-leather bomber-style jacket.

I recounted the morning’s research and conclusions to Raion-ju, as he, Tallwind, and I made our way back into the rare books collection. The big man iridescent bluish-green eyes looked at me as if I had been speaking a foreign language, when I got to the plans to canvas the community for support. Then, instead of helping, Rai sat inside next to Tallwind, in chairs with a view out of the French-doors to the lounging garden.

I sighed with the un-promising foreshadowing of it all. How could I expect to convince any strangers to rally to my troupe’s cause, if I could not even sway the people within our troupe. Like my two so-called allies, I turned to stare out of the glass-panes and attempted to get a grip on my own rage. Recognizing that all of the other males in our collective were quite gung-ho while the mystically enhanced perfect Miss Bramblerose was around, only to resort to lumps of disinterest once she was out of scent range, only frustrated me more.

The thing that bothered me most of all, however, was that I essentially also wanted to ignore the whole thing. I did not honestly feel as if hindering Red Rhea or preventing the Child’s Rite was any of my business. Tegan Bramblerose and Gavin Granitbane were all fired-up over the ritual, as well as Iron Wade to a lesser degree. I, however, owed no fealty to the Hawk Wood Court or Ariadne’s Freehold. The few acquaintances that had, in either community, seemed to agree with the necessity of the Child’s Rite’s excesses. Plus, after the last few days f researching, I had to agree with the majority—assuming that Rhea was correct and the Folk were responsible for Ohio’s excessively high missing children statistics. I did not like the ritual, yet had assuaged my sense of guilt, or whatever, by suggesting the use of a terminal kid. At least, that way the psychological and physical scarring would not go on long into adulthood. Being left on my own, to rally aid for a cause to which I had no legitimate connection, only made the prospect exponentially less attractive.

I watched the lemurs, through the French-doors. As usual, a eight to ten of the slinky simians lounged or cavorted in about the lawn and trees. Some of the lemurs wore articles of clothing, a vest or baggy pants, or a hat, and so on. Additionally, one of the trees bore a fruit which granted ingesters a limited buoyancy, so furry-banded simians could be seen swimming in air from tree to tree.

I remembered Iron Wade’s first encounter with the lemurs. The haggard fencer had approached one of the small simians and said “Hello.” It had only been our second or third trip to the Freehold and none of us had fully come to grips with all of the magic and impossible stuff yet, so I doubted that Wade had honestly expected a reply. Thus, the scar-handed fellow rejoined our party with a slightly haunted expression. Several of us had asked how it had went and all that Iron Wade said was “I don’t speak French.” To which Tegan had snorted and explained, “Yeah, right. I heard he critter say buongiorno, then Wade walked away, stunned.” The memory made me smile at Wade’s confusion by both sentient lemurs and his inability to tell Italian from French.

I let the absurd recollection roll around my mind for a while. It allowed the rest of my thoughts to come to a conclusion. I stretched, exhaled, and got moving. The Child’s Rite issue was a challenge and I had picked my side, which meant supporting my comrades. Regardless of whether my allies all supported me, or put forth any effort. So, I would fight for my side, as best I could, for as long as there was any chance. Thus, either my gang would stop the ritual, or it would be completed in spite of us. Honestly, my choleric humor would allow for no less and was why Summerfire had so favored me.

Since I was effectively alone at that point, blanketing the freehold and generating a ground up support was out of the question. If I had a week or more and plenty of wyrd, I probably could have pulled the changelings together. I changed tactics and hoped that Tegan’s team was having better luck. If I could not work the bottom up, then I would try the top down. Which also meant that I would need to approach my targets in a more formal manner. So, my first step was to park me and my baggage at a quiet desk. I then pulled out my writing supplies and spent thirty or forty minutes composing a short poem.

My finished work was a relatively elegant ten line poem, crafted to be complimentary to pretty much any host. As a personal introduction gift, I was concerned that my little ode would not seem personal enough to Ariadne to secure me an audience. On the other hand, I was unwilling to guess at specific details to try and appeal to the Freehold leader’s vanity or interests.

Gathering up my gear once more I sought out, and fortunately found, the Head Archivist, at his desk on the second floor. “Alistair,” I stood respectfully before the ruled and angular neatness of the desk-set, “ah, hello again. I would like, um, an audience with Ariadne… as soon as possible… uh, within the half-hour for preference.”

The reedy fellow stared up at me, from a ledger in which he had been scribing, glossy purple-eyes wide, “Let me make certain that I heard you correctly. You are requesting an immediate appointment with the Mistress of this House.” The capitalization was audible.

“Yes,” I beamed with appreciative enthusiasm, “that, uh, will be great. I very much would like to speak with her to, uh, plead my case.”

Alistair’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times, then his face turned sour, “Appointments are not rushed, to speak with my Lady. Specifically not now, as she has more pressing matters to which to attend.” His parchment-skin paled a little more.

Seeing Alistair’s controlled fear at the idea of disturbing Ariadne, images of a solid darkness moving within the high braches of the trees of the Wilder Wood. While marching to hear Red Rhea’s announcement of the Child’s Rite, I had asked the Salamander courtier/hunter Lor if Ariadne was present. The pumpkin-colored elfin woodsman would only surreptitiously indicate the foreboding darkness overhead. Remembering Lor’s caution and my own unease, I could understand Alistair’s own reluctance to disturb his mistress. Normally, I knew that I would be even more reticent myself. Then again, I did not think that I would have normally participated in a gang fight—to death, in a bar’s parking lot. That thought made me shudder, hoping that my Keeper had not changed me so much that such reckless behavior was not my new normal.

Meanwhile, the more mission oriented aspects of my mind had concluded that Mr. Tomes was a dead-end. If I had a suitably rare book, pen, or similar item, then I might have attempted bribing my way further. Since, I could not imagine any of my possessions being of value to Alistair, I bid him good-day and sought another route through the Freehold’s ranks.

In the couple of weeks that I had been coming to Sheaves & Leaves I had deduced that there were three or more distinct “departments”, for lack of a better term. Since the archivist path had failed, I shifted direction to the clerical. If that id not work, however, then I doubted any outcome would result from the culinary department.

After I explaining my desire to Philomena, at the front desk, she smiled politely up at me. “Ariadne isth mostht likely in the midstht of her private preparationsth, for going to witnessth the ritual. Thusth, sthe isth very unlikely to restheive sthupplicantsth.”

I clutched my garbage bag to my chest for a physical sensation to keep me focused on the present, rather than mentally wandering off into the delights of the elfin lasses lisp. “I certainly, uh, understand what you are saying, uh, Philomena.” I gave her my widest, puppy-doggiest eyes, and used clutching my wadded up black plastic-bag to seem more needy,. “Um, however, unlikely does not mean, uh, definitely not. Is there, uh, no way to present her, um, with my gift,” With my right hand I drew forth the neatly folded page of notebook paper, from my inner jacket-pocket, all while still holding my trash bag forlornly in the other hand, “and just ask, uh, if Ariadne will see me?”

“Well…” Philomena absently pulled at one of her golden curls and glance sideways, as she considered. “Perhapsth, if you presthented your gift to the Termigant. He isth Ariadne’sth sthecond and he may petition the Lady for your audienceth.”

“That would be wonderful!” I had not realized how much real tension had built in me, until I felt it release at Philomena’s suggestion. “Uh, will you, um, pass this and my request on then?”

Philomena agreed and called a boy over to relay the poem and request. The boy was made of wood and made gentle hollow _thock-thock_ noises as he walked on the hardwood floors. Then, the tweed-clad clerk-lady explained that it might be an hour before a reply returned, so I went and sat in the tea room.

Had I been less nervous about what I was trying to accomplish, I may have seen and seized the opportunity to engage in more idle conversation with demure Philomena, or even the fairly exotic Rosa. As it was, the chance was relegated to a regret-filled hindsight. Instead, to keep myself occupied, I composed another poem, while I waited. This time I through my earlier anxieties out and incorporated what little I knew or could guess of Ariadne, mingled with many of the standard conceits given to female subjects of poetry.

I felt that the resulting two stanzas of four lines each was technically better than the ten lines which went to the Termigant. Even so, neither was as strongly compelling as the ode which I had crafted for Duke Yaya Ti of the Red Court’s Duchy d’Argent, a couple of days earlier. I simply did not have the same level of inspiration as I had felt when writing for a fellow cholericly humored individual. Plus, I had been able to re-draft that other poem over several hours. I know my strength lay in editing and re-working a piece, so without time for that, I could only hope my initial few passes would seem flattering.

A _tok-tok_ tapping announce the wooden boy’s eventual approach to collect me. The lad was about four-foot tall and bore very few signs of having been carved, the wood from which he was primarily made was pale, smooth, and glossy, as if oil polished. Some thin lines did indicate joints. The boy’s eyes were a bleached wood, with dark-stained irises, and pupils which seemed like holes. I could not decide if he was technically bald, as the lad’s “hair” seemed sculpted of the same material the rest of his head. In truth, I had only been ascribing male gender based on the “hair” style, though, as he woe not clothe hand had no discernable genitalia. Although, the wooden-boy did carry a small chalk board, on a string around his neck.

After tapping my elbow, the errand-runner held up the slate for me to read. “I am Tokka. I will lead you to the Lady.”

“ _Okay_.” I lingered on the word a little, then collected my writing things, and got up. “Lead the way, um, Tokka…” I pronounced it as tock-ah. “Did I pronounce that right?”

Tokka just nodded and headed into the rare books section. The mute lad, led me ever upwards through the extra dimensional rooms of the Freehold. Stairs after stairs, some of wood, others stone, metal, and other materials—I even wondered if one short flight was glass. Tokka moved swiftly and I had little time to try pay attention to the surrounding. I was only vaguely aware of climbing a ladder at one point. Yet, books always lined the walls, with occasional doors or sitting areas of as many varied descriptions as the stairs. Up, well beyond the parameters of the Sheave & Leaves building as seen from Athens or the Briar-side garden. Possibly, up beyond any building’s potential.

Finally stopping at a beaded-curtain of glassy greys and whites, Tokka gestured like a game show model, indicating I should head through without him. I gave Tokka a bow of my head as thanks and stepped through into a solarium. I hoped in hindsight, that the youthful spirit-touched would wait to escort me back to the main floor.

My perception took on an odd focused haziness, sort of like a fisheye-lens, only it effected my hearing and thoughts as well as my vision. I could tell that my pounding adrenalin from the rapid assent to the chamber and from my nervousness, was a significant factor to the distortions. However, I could not discount the thick incense fire-like warmth of the room. Part of me was reminded of my meeting with Duke Yaya and I wondered if all of the spirit-touched of a high ranking position new a glamour for muddling the senses, or perhaps they all just knew where to buy an incense that did the trick. Although, admittedly Yaya’s audience chamber had smelled scorched, coppery, and sweaty, where Ariadne’s den smelled of campfire, earth, and sugary.

Adding to the difficulty to focus visually, the room was strongly back lit by the unfiltered sun streaming through several large circular windows. Just a few paces passed the curtained entrance, a semi-opaque ornamental dividing screen had been erected, onto which Ariadne and two attendant’s silhouette were projected. I could not absorb any other details, such as furnishings, or even the intricate patterns of the screen or the elaborate carpet on which I stood. The strong sunlight made the shapes on the screen fairly sharp and it was clear that Ariadne stood in a small basin while being bathed by her attendees

“Uhhh…” My mind groped for momentarily misplaced language skills. While, a few more practical neurons fired and got me to let my trash-bag full of bloody ball-caps and a clubs slide to the floor behind me, along with my backpack. I also clung to the conscious thought to not fidget with my less than impressive garments, as I did not want to draw any more attention to my obvious lower status.

A cleared throat pulled my eyes to an avian-esque gentleman, perched on a stool, near the screen to my left. The fellow’s features were angular, with Cyrano-like beak-ish nose, shimmering dark-green feathers instead of hair, thin fingers ended in black talon-nails, and small sharp eyes with irises of graduated citrine. The storky chap wore a well tailored suit of leaf-green with a orange flower-patterned vest.

“Twilight Tommy,” the bird-lad’s voice was smooth and rounded, almost like an oboes notes, “as Termagant, I have the honor of introducing Ariadne Lady of this House. Though, clearly, this meeting is not to be one of formalities.”

A small part of me lamented not being able to relax enough to get a sense of the Termigant humor. I had long since suspected that Ariadne had Gazed into the Grass Mirror, as I had read melancholic fae described. Yet, I doubted that the long-nosed fellow shared an Autumnearth Grace. I hoped that the Termigant had, like me raised the Rusted Spear of Summerfire, as that would likely garner me some goodwill. However, it seemed equally likely that the floral attired fellow Wore the Flowered Cape of Springwood.

Meanwhile, my whirling thoughts also attempted to grapple with the Termigant being male. A snippet of memory from one of my Lit classes was stressing that Termigant classically meant an unpleasant or shrewish woman. So, I also wondered if the person that I saw merely read visually as male and would using the wrong pronoun aloud be offensive?

“Greetings Twilight Tommy.” Ariadne’s voice came from behind the divider, feminine with and a peculiar humming quality, as if she were harmonizing with herself. “I trust that you will forgive my not offering you a hug.” The humming lilt was clearly making light of her being in the bath.

Although the words did draw my attention to the fact that Ariadne’s curvaceous silhouette had six distinct arms all its own.

“You had words you wished to convey to the Lady?” The Termigant’s clear tenor cut into my slack jawed stupor, as he swept a claw-tipped hand toward the screen, in a “let’s go” gesture.

“Um, yes, ah, I do.” I vacillated between looking at Termigant or the bathing shadows. “But, uh, first, if I may…” I reached slowly into my breast pocket, proud of myself for remembering the poem I had only just written.

The Termigant raised a feathery eyebrow, but made no other move. Water sloshed gently into the basin off Ariadne.

“I have, uh, composed a gift for the Lady.” I removed and unfolded the paper.

Both of the Termigant’s feathery eyebrows rose. He nodded in what I took to be an approving manner.

“I, um, I have only just completed the poem, uh, and have not had the time to practice, uh, its recitation. Also, ah, oratory is not my strong suit, um. So, uh, please keep that in mind.”

I cleared my throat and recited the brief poem. When I looked up from the page, the Termigant held a hand out, to collect the paper. taking two steps forward, I handed the well-dressed fellow my poem, then took one large step backward. My face felt as if it might be grinning from relief, as I assumed the Termigant’s gesture was a positive sign.

So, I took a breath and made my pitch. “I’m here to propose an alternative course of action to the one advocated by Red Rhea, the day before last.” I had applied wyrd to the appropriate secrets which woven Fairest Tongue into my words, as well as a bit more of the energy to favor my chances of succeeding

Of course, swaying opinions was a complex and amorphous thing, with many factors. Thus, my Fortune’s Favor glamour could help me successfully not embarrass myself, or successfully overcome Ariadne’s irritation (if any existed), or simply guide me to select the most advantageous phrases. Even so, I still had to form the basic arguments, so my overall success was by no mean guarantied.

“Why,” the strangely dual voice thrummed, “did you not voice this alternative at that meeting?”

“My allies and I are new to this world of courts and Freeholds.” My steady reply was remarkably deferential, even to my ears. ”At the time we had no understanding of what other options there may be. Since then we have researched within your own walls, as well as conferred with others outside of these territories.”

“What has your research revealed?” Ariadne’s hum was like silk threads brushing against the back of my brain.

My rhetorical plea cascaded in a smooth stream from my lips. If I had not needed to keep thinking of what I wanted to say, I would have loved to sit back and listen to how I was saying it. My tone remained polite and my points succinct. I opened with the premise that every child was as valued as the next, so even sacrificing one should be unacceptable. Then, I outlined how the Rite of Hospitality could be used to the same effect, greater even as it would protect adults as well. I spun the need for more effort from Court and Freehold members, as positive team and community building exorcises.

After what mat have been a quarter-of-an-hour or more of my monologuing, during which Ariadne had stepped from the basin and her attendant’s had proceeded to toweling, powdering, and make up (I guessed, based on the screen shadows), the Lady asked, “How do you expect to convince the mortals to take up the old ways?”

Alistair Tomes had essentially posed the same question. I had wanted to have a better response prepared, than my group had given the head Archivist. I relied on my magic to keep the disappointment, from effecting my voice and posture.

“I have a couple of ideas,” I threw a little conscious support into my Fairest Tongue’s efforts to suppress a creeping dry-mouth and flop-sweat, “I hope that between this Freehold and the Hawk Wood Court there are others, who are more clever, capable of expanding on and adding to them.” I ran my hand through my thick blond-ish curls. “That said, I imagine that a viable starting place would be convincing a fair number of the mortals to purchase and display appropriate talismans as remembrances of the children whom have already been lost. Thus, not only enacting the Rite of Hospitality, but also opening a new source of revenue for any changelings placed in charge of selling the talismans. Other people are likely to succumb to a fad for displaying certain talisman-items, just like any number of pink flamingos from the ‘50’ or the stone geese that seniors seem to favor these days.” I spread my hands. “Obviously, the more well spoken and charming spirit-touched in the communities would be best suited to orchestrating such fads. And we would still make certain to provide the appropriate talismans, to prevent plastic imitations.” I smiled. “Best of all, the literature suggests several options for appropriate talismans for each season, so a variety of methods can be employed.”

I took a deep breath for my big finally. “For the few houses that don’t select their own wards, I’m sure that the spirit-touched community can canvas the area, in just a day or two, and surreptitiously place the needed talismans…”

“Would true hospitably be fulfilled,” Ariadne inquired, “if the home’s resident did not consciously place the ward?”

I suspected that multi-armed mistress might be plying me with the Socratic method, while actually knowing the answer to her question. I chose to reply with the technicality, as I saw it, “The research which my associates and I have conducted only stressed that the ward-tokens be placed and replaced seasonally. There is no emphasis on whom does the placing.”

Ariadne did not speak for a many long seconds, perhaps even a full minute. I wondered of the Lady of the House was weighing the merits of my words, contemplating counter arguments, or just distracted with her attendants. I realized that it had been quite some time since I had glanced to the Termigant, who had not moved substantially. The feathery fellow’s expression also remained motionless, confirming my instinct not to seek insights there, earlier.

When the Ariadne spoke again, the _hum-thrum_ of her voice was distinctly more businesslike. “Members of this Freehold are bound to the neutrality which it represents. We have no voice in what decisions Hawk Wood makes.” Her silhouette was very still, as the assistants moved about her, “Thus, if the Salamanders choose to enact the Child’s Rite, there is nothing that we can do to prevent them.” Her tone shifted to a slightly less matter-of-fact coldness. “While the Court of the Midwestern Territories does span a significant region of the mortal world, our Freehold owes as much allegiance to them as to nearly a dozen others. Involving my people in the manner in which you propose would constitute favoritism to the Hawk Wood, of which the other courts would not approve.”

I pouted. There was way more politics involved than I had imagined and I understood Ariadne’s position. I pretty much knew that I was not going to sway this diplomatic leader. Even so, there was a glimmer of a chance, so I tried anyway. “I certainly see your political position more clearly. However, your voice must carry some advisory value, regardless of the court in question—doubly so, by my reckoning. First, for maintaining a neutral Freehold, which seems more difficult than an insular court. Secondly, for being, and having access to, so many scholars; such compiled knowledge must carry worth.”

“Mmmm…” Ariadne’s throaty hum of considerations carried a top-note of appreciation. Then, her tone became that of a mom trying to explain sharing to a toddler for the first time, “You truly must be as fresh out of the Thorns as you claim. My position and resources are precisely why I may not advise any of the individual courts. Regardless of what the motivation, the others would sight favoritism, which is inherently not neutral.”

I was grateful that Ariadne did not also feel it necessary to slow it down to single syllables for me. On the other hand, I had a mission and could not stop from exploring every absurd possibility.

“Yet,” I tried to exploit what I thought might be a flaw in the Lady’s logic, “you and your people attended the announcement, and discussion thereafter, on Wednesday. Even now, you prepare to attend the ritual itself.” The pleading in my voice made me a little concerted that my Fairest Tongue may have been wearing off, although it was at least not accusatory. “Does that not already make you a part of the events and their purpose?”

Two of Ariadne’s arm-shadows brushed away my question. “A guest is not responsible for how their host fences their yard.”

I deflated with a deep exhalation. Then, even more desperately grasped for straws, “If the Child’s Rite is truly intended to help the whole mundane territory, then Sheaves & Leaves benefits as much from it, for being within that region. In turn, the Freehold also must bare some responsibility for receiving the benefits.”

“If my neighbor mows my lawn, to my satisfaction,” the tickly voice countered, “without my requesting the service and asking for no remuneration. Then, I have no obligation to them or the work that they did.”

Ariadne was right and had made it very clear to me. I assessed my obligation to Tegan and Gavin’s cause and gave the whole argument one more paraphrased try. Honestly, though, part of me simply enjoyed the articulate argumentation. Needless to say, Ariadne held firm on all her points, especially that Neutral Territory meant not getting involved. I also detected a little peevishness in the new set of answers.

“I very much appreciate all that you have said, even more so all that you have let me say.” My shoulders sagged, more disappointed that I may have upset Ariadne, than that I had failed in my goal.

I was half-way through turning to collect my bags, when a tangential idea came to me. The Termigant had extended a favor to a total stranger, for a simple poem, and Ariadne had been more than generous with her time. So, I knew that I should leave and count myself lucky. Even so, I found myself risking actual ire, by asking, “Before I go, however, I would ask one more small boon.”

Ariadne was being dressed, in what seemed to be an array of many wispy scarves. The voluptuous shadow betrayed no change in posture. The Termigant, on the other hand, had straightened on his stool and frowned at my presumption.

My rapid pulsed beat a handful of times, with no response from either official, so I carried on, “I shall be going next to the Salamander Mound, where I am even more unfamiliar than here. Would you please provide me a list of the names and identifying characteristic of the more influential members of that court?” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m not asking for any political leanings or private information. I merely hope to spend less time going from person to person trying to assess their possible ability to sway court opinion. As you well understand, my goals have a distinct time limit.”

After a brief pause, Ariadne granted my request, to the Termigant's eyebrow raised surprise. I imagined that a combination of my glamours, an assumption that I would not stop my pestering otherwise, and a desire to inflict me on particular Salamander courtiers, all factored into Ariadne’s decision. Whatever the motivation, the Termagant stepped over to a writing desk and spent several minutes drafting a list of almost a dozen Hawk Wood member's titles, names, and simple physical descriptions. While I stood as still and quiet as I could, watching the silhouette’s address Ariadne’s hair.

          After accepting the list, I bowed deeply to the Termigant, then to Ariadne’s shadow. I backed towards the doorway, still bent over, until I was able to collect my bags. Straightening, I backed the rest of the way through the beaded curtain. Thankfully, Tokka was waiting, to return me to the more familiar ground floor. It also occurred to me that the lad had been eavesdropping. Regardless, I was relieved that I did not have to guess my way back to the lower floors.

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

** IV **

Once I started to recognize the section titles, I bid my guide farewell. By way of thanks, I removed an unused notebook from my pack and handed it to Tokka. “I’d like you to, uh, have this. As, um, appreciation for doing such a good job.”

          Tokka’s face reshaped into a delighted grin, as he accepted the blank book. Then, the wooden lad hurried off towards the mundane portion of Sheaves & Leaves, while I went in search of my housemates.

          Panthery Raion-ju and marred Sean Tallwind were easily found, precisely where I had seen them last, hours earlier. The duo still slumped into the armchairs, like half deflated beach-balls. Failure to secure Ariadne’s support only exacerbated my fury and disgust at my housemates’ complete lack of assistance.

          Walking past the two lumps, I spoke without slowing, “I’m going to the Barrow Mound, maybe I’ll see you both later.”

          I planned to follow the Ways which led from Ariadne’s Freehold to the seat of the Court of the Midwest Territories, so assumed that I would not need Rai’s Briar traversing glamour guided assistance. “Ways” was yet another one of those words which had gained new meaning in my life. On its own, the pan-dimensional Briar was not stable or consistent or predictable or any of the things that would have made traveling through it even slightly less nerve-wracking. Spirit-touched had, long since before my time, figured out how to sort of tame narrow strips of the shifting Inbetween and those paths were called Ways, in the references which I had read. Properly maintained Ways always lead to and from the same two locations, regardless of how much the Thorns may change between. So, as long as I did not wander of the wide path, I would reach my destination in remarkably short order.

          Sean and Rai sprang up and stayed on my heels, as if they had been coiled and waiting for the go sign. Of course, ask for help and they ignore me, hope they would fall in a deep hole far-away and they cannot wait to be near me. It was like my own personal subset of Murphy’s Law, ‘Tommy’s Addendum’ perhaps. Additionally, of the so-called allies which I had been left with at Ariadne’s, Freerunner was the only one for whom I felt any respect and he was the only one that was nowhere to be seen. Plus, not knowing exactly when Red Rhea intended to start the ritual, meant that I did not feel as if I had the time to look for ‘Runner.

Although, I certainly did entertain the idea of hunting my hirsute ally, in the hopes that I would then miss any further Child’s Rite shenanigans. I imagined how easy it would be to justify to Mr., Granitbane and Miss Bramblerose, how I had done all that I could for their “stop the ritual” campaign. However, the thought of shirking my resolve to fight for in that engagement, made my skin itch. So, I kept true to the course which had dragged me that far.

My best hope, by then though, remained that Tegan’s team had already experienced more success at the Court. My rational self, guffawed at my hopes. So, as I walked, I mentally composed another poem lauding the Hawk Wood Court, just in case it may come in handy as a gift or appeasement.

          In the fortnight or so in which my fellows and I had been traversing the Wilder Woods, I had grown accustomed to certain features, the canopy overhead being so thick as to make the forest nighttime dark and the perpetual high-autumn—sixty-five to seventy degree days, forty degree nights, smells of distant burning leaves, pumpkins, cider, hay, earth, and the like, with sounds of rustling and occasional snaps which always seemed too close and rarely as if the wind could be the cause.

A few minutes out from the Freehold, however, I was compelled to wonder if the thoughtless controlling Gyr wanted to make me scream, for having to rely on my lazy associates, or if the mysterious omni-force truly loved me, as it knew that I would need Rai’s aid, regardless of my personal feelings. The Ways that the three of us followed vanished, as the infernal Briar had over-grown the previous clear path, with dense foliage.

Darker, colder, louder and creepier noises—every bird sound seemed like a raptor’s shriek, each snap the crack of a tree almost falling on us. Even the aromas seemed more threatening, like the forest may be burning, or decaying corpses were just out of sight. In addition to dense thorny branches and vines and massive roots which all seemed to grab at our clothes and feet, thick banks of fog and smoke would roll through obscuring our already limited vision.

Concentrating in just the right way, I intensified the faery light, which my constant aura, as bright as I could. I sometimes felt jealous of Tegan’s hypnotic bloomwell fragrance might. I smiled ruefully, knowing that my moonlight glow was far more comforting in the unpredictable Briar. Plus, I had control over the intensity of my faery aura. At full brightness, my illumination even helped to penetrate the unexpected clouds of rolling fogs and smokes.

I could have also cast my Summer’s Embrace glamour to keep myself feeling a comfortable seventy-two degrees; I even had wooden camping matches that would allow me to enact the magic without expending of my stored wyrd. If I had been willing to waste the magical energy, then I could have even extended the comforting warmth to anyone within my luminous aura. I was in so miserable a mood, however, that I simply turned up my collar and slipped on my hat and gloves. Privately telling myself, “Sometimes it’s best to just wallow in the discomforts that the world heaps on you.”

That said, with Rai’s glamour enhanced guidance, our trio still made it through to our destination. Although, what should have been a half-hour walk turned into over an hours worth of trail blazing. I could not complain, though, for without Raion-ju’s glamour, I doubted that I would have ever found my way out of the Briar again.

I also found myself wondering, and not for the first time, if I could convince Rai or Tegan to teach me the secrets of the Way Finding glamour that they both knew. I could not find a subtle enough approach to the conversation, though. Even assuming that either of them did not secretly relish being needed by the rest of us for guidance to and from our oak-haven, I knew that discussions of faery magic still made all of my cohorts twitchy. Using glamours seemed to upset my colleagues, for being too beneficial, or versatile, or some-such asinine reasoning.

In addition to Raion-ju’s guide services, the only other blessing on the hike was an unspoken mutual agreement to not converse. Except for general grunts of displeasure from Sean Tallwind, when we had to start lurching threw the over-growth.

 

I breathed with relief when our trio exited the extra-wild Briar. Entering the clearing around the Barrow Mound was like stepping onto shore after treading water for an hour. Other than the supernaturally amped-up surrounding vegetation, he clearing had one more new feature, from when I had last visited; several massive bonfires had been built up around the salamander-shaped earthwork.

Largest of the blazes was set a few yards before the mounds head. The fire was wider than the large stone double-doors, which stood open into the Mound. Burning over two stories high was apparently insufficient, as the flames were being fed and encouraged to grow by a dozen or so spirit-touched, eight or ten-foot long logs in, then returning to the unnaturally dense Briar for more.

          Billowing dark-smoke plumed from the various bonfires and roiled along the thickly twined branches overhead. So, it was easy for me to believe that I had found the source of the smoke which had hindered our trek. Which, in turn, led me to understand that the preparations for the Child’s Rite had affected the Briar as whole, or at least for quite some distance.

Many other changelings, of various appearances, scurried in and out of the clearing, woods, or the Barrow. All were presumably in preparation for the ritual. Although, the purpose of the tasks escaped me, especially those whom seemed to be gathering butterflies and hurrying them to a specific location in the Briar.

At first glance, I saw no familiar faces. I also consulted the Termigant’s “who’s who” list to no immediate avail. So, I entered the wide open mouth of the Barrow and through to the main hall of the Hawk Wood Court. I tried to ignore that Tallwind and Rai continued to tag along, as if they might actually help in my mission.

As I observed handfuls of spirit-touched pass to and fro through the square stone entrance, I worried that some faery ward would prevent uninvited guests admittance. Either, closing the doors was good enough to keep intruders out, or the wards had been lifted for the ritual, for my party of three entered unhindered. Truthfully, passing as close to the largest bonfire, as was necessary, had been the most noteworthy moment, as the heat of the flames seemed pushed away from the mound. It was as if the earthen Salamander was blowing the heat into the Thorns, with a steady breath that had no other discernable effect.

Within, the temperature remained comfortable, though the sounds of external activity fell quickly away. Unsurprisingly, the interior was more like a building than an ancient grave. Though, I was surprised that the architecture of the building in question was that of a gothic cathedral. While the gothic aspect seemed appropriate for the court’s Autumnal, the cathedral part felt off. The religious implications just seemed far more reverent than I had expected.

Even though I might make allusions to the Gyr as having a personality and omniscient agenda, I did not really believe it. Furthermore, of the large minority of spirit-touched who did believe such things, they rarely employed Christian symbols or methodologies. Or so I had deduced from my readings in Ariadne’s rare-books collection. Thus, I thought the Hawk Wood’s architecture might be more of an ironic statement,. Except, little touches and the way courtiers moved in the place, strongly suggested that they took it more seriously.

Recalling Red Rhea’s announcement from introduction and announcement from the other day, I realized that I had been assuming that she was revered for her academic and arcane scholarly reputation. The melancholic Gazers into the Brass Mirror were often associated with ancient magical lore. So, it had seemed reasonable that the Autumnal leadership of the court would look favorably on a well known practitioner. As I thought about Rhea’s speech, though, I remembered how her fervor had struck me as zealously. So, I started to slide my expectations of the Salamanders away from arcane investigators and towards the religious plurality.

The mental shift had me chewing my lip in consternation, as I was uncomfortable trying to sway people of faith, when all I had was reason with which to defend my positions. Faith allowed for contradictions and paradoxes of thought, which factual argumentation could rarely assail.

Meanwhile, my pre-Lit major classes as an Architecture undergrad came back to me, as I passed through the dark transept, the many gathering areas were illuminated by candle-filled wall and floor sconces, as well as stained glass windows, set high in the walls. I could not make out any of the depictions, however the colorful windows glowed with a light brighter than the one I had left outside, giving the impression was that they led to a different exterior.

Pausing at a quiet apse, in which was small table and lit candle, I finally shook my cumbersome tail. Raion-ju and Sean Tallwind moseyed on, presumably in search of comfy chairs. Pulling out my writing supplies from my dark-green backpack, I quickly jotted down the poem which I had worked out on the journey. Then I took a little more care to brush off my jeans and large jacket, as well as attempting to straighten my unruly hair.

Realizing that either the temperature or nervousness were likely to cause me to start sweating, I also took preventative measures there. Selecting an easy-strike match, from the box in my pants pocket, I struck it while concentrating on invoking the correct glamour, and spit out the flame in the same movement. Summer’s Embrace enrobed me in the unwavering comfort of a suitable temperature. Thus, as long as the magic held, I would be spared embarrassing pit stains and clammy hands, as I attempted to present the best possible impression of myself and by extension my group’s cause.

I pocketed the spent match, not wanting to violate any un-posted littering rules. More so, I was concerned that some strange changeling might be able to use a small amount of my saliva, in a glamour against me.

Removing my coat, I draped it over my left arm, also covering the backpack and trash-bag I carried in my hand. The pack suggested inexperienced student, while the black plastic bag implied homeless. Neither were impressions that I wanted to project. So, I hoped the coat would offer enough camouflage. After another review of my “who’s who” list, I tucked it away, with the poem, and headed into the main nave.

Open arcades spread off of the nave and many doors and passageways led off of the arcades. I could see where the more typical trappings of a cathedral (pews mainly) had been stacked to one side. In place of the pews, the nave was arrange more like a medieval banquet hall, including a pair of giant anachronistic fireplaces at either end. The furnishes included long tables of thick wood and a few of solid stone, as well as equally chucky wooden benches and chairs.

Easily more than two score spirit-touched mingled, danced, and gamed, in discrete pairs or groups, throughout. I saw no two fae of similar features, though mannerisms all fell on a spectrum of somber resolve to purposefully effected relaxation. Many fine outfits were worn amongst others as plane as my own. Nicely clad, or not, nearly half of the courtiers were in trappings of orange, silver, browns, and black, accented with leaves, straw, gourds, and the like. Almost as many of the strangers wore the more icy colors of Winterwater’s chosen. As far as I could tell, the sanguine and choleric courtiers comprised equally small minorities.

Although, I had not met the vast majority of these fae, I did recognize many of them from Red Rhea’s announcement-gathering. More importantly, I identified several of the influential members from the Termigant’s list. Queen Glass Refractory was one from both, her liquid bronze features never seemed to stop shifting from one appearance to another.

It was easier to pick out the important people than I had expected, as they tended to be the central focus within larger groupings. Of course, without my list I would have had to spend a lot of time discovering names. Not to mention the time that I would have wasted assuming the focal figures were merely entertainers.

The toothpick thin ballerina, slowly dancing and bending in impossible angles, must have been Little Miss Pity. The boisterous guffaw, from near one of the large incongruous fireplaces, came form the living mountain known as Tom of the Holler. The animate skeleton wearing a big black top-hat and telling stories was certainly Baron Samdi. Tinkly bells, near the door, drew my eye to the arrival of a sinuous middle-eastern woman in belly-dancer attire, the flowers in her hair pegging her as Scheherazade.

I found it hard to believe that such renown characters of myth and legend as Baron Samdi and Scheherazade would actually choose to settle in Athens Ohio. Until proven otherwise, I worked on the assumption they had been normal people like me that, unlike me, had plucked a name to use, one of power and comfort from stories that they had known. It sometimes made me wonder how many other captives of the Folk had selected the same names over the years and how many of them may be free at the same time?

Samdi and Glass were both listed as melancholic. Tom of the Holler was one of the Summer Regents—possibly explaining why his laugh alone had seemed so likable. Little Miss Pity was a high ranking member of the phlegmatic contingent of the court, while Scheherazade held similar stature amongst Springair’s followers.

I did not see the icy regents Jesse Frost or Sly Boots. Not that I should have expected to see the living shadow that was Sly Boots. Nor did I spot anyone matching the descriptions of Gentle Zephyra or Tupelo Jack, the sanguine regents, according to my list. So, I guessed that Miss Pity and Scheherazade had pulled duty as their respective humors lead representatives, for the time being.

I also spotted my allies spread throughout the gathering. Seeing that iron Wade was joining the group around Little Miss Pity and that Tegan Bramblerose had already engaged in conversation with Samdi, brought a relieved grin to my face. Gavin Granitbane was also gathering his own little audience. Then, I even spied my collective’s prodigal-daughter Dark Sol, in one of the shadowier alcoves, talking to someone whom I could not see, though that wiped the smile from my lips.

Witnessing, or just thoughts of, Sol always made me conflicted. When mortal, Sol had been a pleasantly plump, Lit Grad student. I had even seen her around the college, after I had changed my major from architecture. Therefore, I had felt some solidarity with Sol at the fateful Kendal clinical trial, before our lives went all fae-shaped.

Cute and bubbly, Sol’s normal human self had been a five-foot-four, white woman, in her mid-twenties, with wavy natural-blond hair past her shoulder, and cornflower blue eyes. After our escape, the pale Midwestern lass had become even paler and much thinner. Thanks to her darkling predilections, in daylight, Sol’s skin ranged from waxy to chalky and always greyish-white, as well as being limp on her nearly emaciated frame. While in dark places, Sol’s skin was taught and almost opalescent, over firm muscles. The pale woman's hair varied from brittle bleach-white tangles to a shimmering platinum sheet, depending on the amount of daylight. Also, Sol’s blue eyes had turned all black, as if her pupils had expanded to encapsulate the whole of each eye. Dark Sol had also confided that her Keeper had tattooed strange black writing along the full length of, her spine.

I could not, nor did I desire attempting to, imagine what the former grad student had endured at the hands of that Bright One. The tats must have been the least of Sol’s torments, though, considering her other physical modification.

It was that auxiliary “feeding” method, which gave me the most pause about Dark Sol. Mouths could open within the palms of the colorless hands, allowing the unnatural sucking of vitality from others. Even though I had personally only seen Sol drain a normal human, I suspected that her hand-maws would effect other spirit-touched as easily, as did Tegan’s faery aroma.

Plus, Sol’s own small melancholic Grace created a hair raising eerie-chill when in her presence. Which must endear the sometimes sickly darkling to the Salamander court. Not to mention that Sol’s bubbly talkative personality remained, only her morbid darkling nature favored turning every conversation to some macabre topic.

Dark Sol had carried her new personality through to an all black goth-chick wardrobe. I was actually surprised that I could make out the shapely opalescent-skinned lass’s attire in the shadows of her alcove—tight black jeans, tucked into knee high boots, which laced up the side, a satiny top which may technically have been lingerie, and an unzipped hoodie sweat shirt. At least, Sol was one housemate with more than one outfit, although, I suspected that she did not shop at Hot Topic, so much as just raiding corpses at the hospital.

I sighed, grateful that creepy Sol either did not notice me, or she preferred to keep her alcove conversation private. Panning the room again, my eyes alighted again on the alluring Ms. Bramblerose and her own creepy conversation partner, Baron Samdi. While appearance did not seem to be a guaranty of a changeling’s inclinations, it tended to be more indicative of the strongest proclivities. So, Baron Samdi was another darkling, if ever there was one.

It was fascinating that stunning, sanguine humored, Tegan was chatting amiably with a chap whose head was more skull than flesh. Some pieces did click for me and I realized that the Baron’s boney appearance was more due to his grave from Autumnearth, than his darkling nature. I still could not grasp why my voluptuous ally was permitting the tall skeleton/zombie loom so proprietary over her. At least that is how I interpreted Samdi’s stance and gestures, since it was obviously impossible to read the absence of facial expressions—lacking flesh enough with which to express. Had Tegan’s ROTC training somehow made her so good of an actress, that she was only leading the Baron on, to gain assistance with our cause? Or, was the bloomwell into mostly-dead guys? As if Samdi were fertilizer for Tegan’s flowery self.

I shook my head and tore my attention away from the pairing, before I developed more explicit mental images, which I knew that I would regret. My view fell upon the cluster of people around Little Miss Pity. Iron Wade the Man of Steal was just reaching the front of the ring of admirers, circling the née impossibly thin dancer.

Miss Pity was practically a stick-figure, only the slightest definition of shoulder and hip seemed to offer purchase for her skin-tight snow-white leotard and gauzy white skirt. The phlegmatic ballerina’s feet were so diminutive that her eggshell-colored toe-shoes looked more like lifecycles than footwear. Also, like a stick figure, Little Miss Pity’s head gave her lollipop-silhouette; especially as she stood tiptoe and craned her neck to look up, into Iron Wade’s dull metallic-grey eyes.

Wade and Pity looked almost as absurd as Tegan and Samdi, while not being at all disturbing to my inner aesthete. Therefore, I was able to wonder how well Iron Wade was presenting our pro-Rite of Hospitality case. In turn, I realized that the clock was still ticking and that I should stop gawping and lend a hand. Following both my allies’ leads and my earlier plan to work from the top down, my first choice was Queen Glass. Unfortunately, the Regent Refractory was in the center of an apparently impenetrable cluster of courtiers. So, I chose to go with the closest thing to familiarity that I had and I headed over to Tom of the Holler.

Which was when Gavin Granitbane pulled off a power-move, in more ways than one. The once upon a time fireman’s-calendar cover-boy had stripped to his blocky and pebbly reddish-orange waist, then started striking bodybuilder poses. Once Gavin had built up a sheen of sweat—turning the look of his dry-earth flesh to the appearance of wet clay—he stacked a couple of the stone banquette tables atop each other and added as many spirit-touched volunteers on thick wooden chairs, as he could wrangle. The rocky fellow then crawled under the whole pile and lifted it over his head, slowly spinning and posing the whole time.

My jaw dropped. I knew the jovial ogre was strong, but I had no idea that he was that kind of showman. The Spectacular Mr. Granitbane’s ploy worked too. When Gavin safely set the table down, Queen Glass beckoned him over. Needless to say, Gavin’s display had also drawn most everyone else’s attention as well. Then having the Queen’s attention, caused the court to remain hushed and listen to what the earthen newcomer had to say.

With general conversing on hold, I adjusted my trajectory away from the summery Regent, to drift instead towards my rocky comrade. From the corners of my eye, I saw that my other associates did the same, along with most of the crowd.

123

          Queen Glass was seated in a large, high-backed, darkly stained, thick wooden thrown, although the chair was only marginally more ornate than any of the other seating with the hall. The thrown also rested atop a slightly raised platform, so it was easy to see Glass Refractory and anyone standing before her.

My best guess was that shiny Queen Glass’s resting, or default, appearance was a featureless uniform bronze, polished to mirror shine, without any visible seams or joint lines. Somewhere around five-foot-seven, the monarch did have feminine curves, although smoothed, as if wearing a form fitting metal leotard from head to toe. On the other hand, Ms. Refractory’s form always seemed to be in transition. So, I chided myself that my observations had not been extensive enough to really be drawing such conclusions.

In spite of the excellent view, even with the general hush, there was still enough murmuring to make it difficult to hear precisely what Gavin said to the lady of liquid-metal. The still shirtless Gavin, seemed to start off well, though—a polite bow was followed with a dignified posture. Then the fairly jock-ish fellow started gesticulating with his big brick-like hands and seemed to be stopping and restart, as I had heard him do in so many earlier conversations.

Queen Glass did not say much, though when she did her voice was clear and resonant, like the notes of a glass-harp. Unfortunately that musical quality also made it hard to pick out her specific words, as well. The bronze woman shape was also shifting, as Gavin gesticulated. Specifically the Queen’s head metamorphosed into a more avian appearance, including beak and less metallic coloring—reminiscent of the depictions of Egyptian deities.

          After only a minute or two, Gavin realized that he was out of his communications depths. Blue-marble eyes glanced desperately around and spotted Tegan. The serious redhead had made it much closer to the small dais, than had any of Gavin’s other allies. The shirtless semi-statuesque fellow gestured Miss Bramblerose over.

From the murmurs and giggles that I overheard, it was clear that Gavin had made a social gaff and that normally only the Queen should call people to her presence. However, Queen Glass may have hoped that Gavin’s companion would be more articulate, since she did not object to the breach of etiquette. Plus, Baron Samdi still strode beside my fair bloomwell colleague, so that may have also smoothed some of the social wrinkles.

I was able to move a little closer, as Mr. Granitbane introduced Miss Bramblerose to the Queen. More murmuring, and a glance to Samdi’s posture, told me that the Baron was probably somewhat affronted at having been denied the opportunity to present Tegan more formally. Perversely, all I could think about was where had the Baron got such a well tailored black mourning-suit, as well as why did he not wear a tie of some sort.

Thanks to my renegade wandering wonderings, I missed a lot of what Tegan and Glass said to each other. Yet, I did catch the gist. For Miss Bramblerose’s part, she was polite and succinct, avoiding flowery attempts to make a story of it—as, I would learn later, Gavin had done. Although, I did suspect that Tegan was employing the Fairest Tongue glamour, or something very similar. Even so, the buxom bloomwell simply presented the facts and her concerns regarding the Child’s Rite, as she saw them, and the alternatives which our collective had compiled.

Tegan’s words seemed to have no greater success, than had Gavin’s. Perhaps less, as the Regent Refractory had refined her bird visage into a distinctly blackbird shape and hue. A message which I assumed was mocking—specifically, mockingbird. Plus, the Queen’s few remarks amounted to, “Red Rhea has assured Us of the efficacy and importance of the Child’s Rite. Perhaps, you should have her explain it to you, in more detail.” Which I felt was fairly threatening, assuming the worst that my troupe feared of Rhea turned out to be true.

When Tegan made a second attempt, Queen Glass’s ringing tones came firmly from her black bird’s beak, “Red Rhea has been a well known and respected scholar of rituals and glamours, for many long years. You have barely been out of the Thorns for a fortnight. It seems clear upon whose research skills We should rely.”

Tegan’s full lips drew firm and tight, as a blush bloomed across her creamy freckled cheeks. Whispers and titters spread through the cathedral’s nave, again. The courtiers were clearly inclined to follow whatever lead their Queen offered.

By then, Iron Wade and I had wound up next to each other. The fencing instructor turned oil change “specialist” and I exchanged glances which said “I don’t care for how our allies are being treated, do you?” Then, we caught Gavin’s eye and gestured for him to bring us onto the dais and into the discussion. Not that I cared much about protocol just then anyway, however having successfully summoned and introduced Tegan, the Mr. Granitbane’s precedent was set.

Gavin presented, “Two more of my companions, Iron Wade the Man of Steal and Twilight Tommy.”

Wade and I bowed, though not as deeply as possible. My dour compatriot did not seem to mind letting me speak first, so I did. I had composed my thoughts enough by then to have cast my Fairest Tongue and Fortune’s Favors, as well as review what I had only half heard of Tegan’s presentation. The two issues I identified as worthy of redress, were that Tegan had not been very specific and that Glass had seemed to breeze over the ultimate treatment of the child sacrifice.

By the time I spoke, Queen Glass’s appearance was well on its way back to featureless bronze. I spoke as quietly as I could, while still making sure that the nearest courtiers could overhear me. “Thank you Majesty, for considering our proposals. As my colleagues have mentioned, we have spent the greatest part of the past three days, uncovering lore surrounding the Child’s Rite.” My hands were clasped in front of me, holding my coat and bags, as one might an old-time muffler. I peered into the reflection of my own eyes, made more golden in the bronze mirror of the Queen’s face. “I do appreciate that you have already stressed that the visitor, Red Rhea, has made assurances indicating that the child used in the ritual will not be overly harmed. However, sources are very explicit that for the ritual to actually function, the child would need to die or be severely maimed.”

A crown of jagged glass grew, like stop motion crystal formations, about the Regent Refractory’s head and her bronze coat crazed. The Queen’s tone was also sharper, "As I have already suggested, you should speak with Red Rhea. As your sources were incorrect.”

I dug in and made one last attempt, “Perhaps we,” I nodded to Tegan and Gavin, “have not been clear. Our sources have not merely been second or third hand written accounts. I actually spoke with Duke Yaya To, of the Western Territories, yesterday. And he had bore witness to a Child’s Rite where the child did not die. Even he would not go into detail about the child’s final condition, beyond using the phrase ‘permanently mangled’.”

Queen Glass Refractory’s “skin” cracked further, my reflection blurring to in-distinction with all the lines and edges which formed. Frills of glass shards grew from about the Queen’s person, mostly at the joints. I realized with a start that something I had said, possibly everything I had said, had pissed the monarch off and this was her mad face. I became uncomfortably aware of how damaging a smack from a hand effectively full of hundreds of glass shards would be, also that I had no protection beyond flimsy Old Navy attire; extra flimsy in light of the hundreds of tiny glinting rainbows refracting off of the countless sharp edges before me.

That is when Iron Wade decided to speak. I paid no heed to my cohort’s words. Although, I could not have been more grateful for the distraction. As soon as the Queen’s head turned to see who spoke, my full attention was set to backing away, out of the ring of courtiers, as quickly and unobtrusively as possible.

I wondered if Queen Glass was more upset because she knew that we were right, or that Red Rhea may have duped her. I strongly suspected the former, since Glass Refractory kept trying to send us to the Rhea woman. However, mentioning an official from another court might have been insulting enough, on its own. On the other hand, I had a creeping suspicion that Ms. Rhea knew the secrets to a powerful mind-control glamour, which was why my group had been encountering so much resistance.

Theoretically, Red Rhea should have had the time to slowly build up the glamour, throughout every level of the Court and Ariadne’s Freehold. As newcomers, my gang had not been affected. So, that further dampened my desire to address the arcane-scholar directly, even with my companions.

All of which left me mostly wondering what to do next. Fortunately, the rest of my allies had also extricated themselves from the Queen’s presence, shortly after my vanishing act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

** V **

My cabal sort of regrouped in an apse off of a main arcade, near to yet out of direct sight of spirit-touched within the central nave. Tegan and Gavin were there, as much as myself, however the others drifted over or away according to whatever whims drove them. Not that I was inclined to offer any attention to the coincidental presence of Sean Tallwind, Raion-ju, or Dark Sol; my adrenalin was to hyped from what felt like a near escape, plus I was still irritated with the lack of assistance from that trio. At least my mood was tempered somewhat, in that Iron Wade had not joined our corner conference, in favor of returning to his interrupted interaction with Little Miss Pity.

          After comparing notes, those of our collective that cared to pay attention, sadly confirmed that we had made no real progress. Miss Bramblerose had discovered that the ritual was scheduled to start as the sun set, which left only a couple of hours in which to stop it, if we could.

I groaned, running both golden-brown hands through my silken hair. I wanted to throw in the towel and leave the Hawk Wood Court to their creepy-ass Child’s Rite. However, I felt as if I had joined a team. A Team to which Gavin and Tegan were currently team captains, and neither of them were ready to give up. Then, I was wondering if any of the other humors shared such loyalty to an all-but-lost cause, or if it was purely a choleric trait.

“Um, well,” I offered the only tactic that I could see, “I think, uh, our only solution left, uh, is to fall back to the original plan.” I shrugged. “We, uh, need to make a last-minute last-ditch push, um, for a grassroots campaign. We, ah, all commit to tell every spirit-touched that we can, uh, get to listen.” I started collecting my gabs and coat from where I had set them at my feet. ”Um. I figure it’s just a matter of telling them, uh, the real situation and convincing as many as possible to speak out, uh, as a group, against the ritual. Their leaders, um, will have to listen.” I sounded more confident than I felt.

“Oh, is _that_ all we have to do?” Tegan Bramblerose’s wide sparkling green-eyes rolled derisively, then she immediately raised delicate hands and lowered her head apologetically. “No, sorry, I don’t like it, but I agree that’s our best bet now.”

“I don’t know,” Gavin’s rough right-hand rubbed his blocky chin, with a stony scraping sound, “we could just grab the kid away from wherever they got him? Or if we can’t find him beforehand, grab the kid from the ritual itself.”

The beauteous Bramblerose and I exchanged skeptical glances, she said, “I’m not sure we could pull that off.”

“Let’s keep it on a back burner.” I deflected. “Keep an eye out for where the kid might be and if we can’t get some support by… say a half-hour before sunset, then we revisit counter-kidnapping.”

. In addition to the logistical and moral nightmares of attempting Mr. Granitbane's idea, I also did not want to get into the potential mystical problems. My reading at Sheaves & Leaves had indicated that rituals once stared, may sometimes have unforeseen consequences if they are interrupted. So, if the Child’s Rite from commenced, I doubted that I would be party to any further attempts to interrupt it.

Something about the logistical thinking, paired with wrinkly Mr. Tallwind limping over, sparked an idea. I politely pressed Sean to be useful and give me some of the duct-tape which I knew he carried in his overstuff backpack of tools. Then, Gavin had just finished re-donning his lumberjack-shirt and jacket, when I asked him, “Hey, uh, Gavin? Could you, um, do me solid and carry my stuff, uh, for a while? I was, uh, expecting to be back at our haven by now and, uh, it’s a bit heavy for me.”

I lied, of course, the weight was not an issue, as much as the awkwardness and low rent appearance of the trash-bag. Plus, it would be nice to have someone else toting around the blood-soaked evidence of our brutal attack the night before. Not that I believed that reason would have convinced the otherwise congenial earthenware fellow. Even though, he was one of the main reasons for the excessive amounts of blood.

While adjusting my backpack’s straps and duct-taping the trash-bag to it, Tegan confirmed with each of our colleagues that we would follow my grassroots plan. So, by the time Gavin was sliding my pack onto his big square shoulders, we were ready to split up once more, into the Hawk Wood community.

In spite of it being my plan, though, I did not start with whatever fae I could approach. My doubts for success had mingled with my considerations of tactics and methodologies, to form a vision of the future. Even if my gang did fail to thwart this Child’s Rite, it was an annual ritual, which left plenty of time to try any number of blocking attempts.

However, the idea which I liked the most was either going to be quick to put into place or take long slow nudging to orchestrate. Specifically, I wanted the Salamander Court to undergo a regime change, believing that any of the other regents would be unwilling to continue renewing a distinctly Autumnal ritual. So, I headed into the milling spirit-touched to try and instigate a coupe.

Tom of the Holler was, according to my Ariadne information, the choleric courtier most likely to become King, if that seasonal-humor’s contingent were to win the throne. Needless to say, I favored getting Summerfire’s people into more power. Plus, I assumed that I would have more success in trying to talk a like minded fellow into attempting a fairly militaristic action.

From a distance, Mr. O’Holler looked grey and rocky (similar to Gavin, in many ways) with mossy green hair and eyebrows. The large regent wore a medieval style long vest and pants, also of mossy-green. Bare-armed and shirtless, Tom still seemed to be wearing a pale-blue tie or thin scarf.

Mr. of the Holler was arm-wrestling a marble statue-like fae fellow, when I approached. Both competitors drank from large tankards, in their off hands. I was so intent on speaking with Tom, that I failed to recognize who his opponent was, until the living statue had departed. Not only was the pink-marbled fellow someone who I had seen at Sheaves & leaves, he was also most likely Tupelo Jack, male head of the sanguine humored courtiers. I told myself that it had been just as well, since proposing a semi-hostile takeover of the court was probably not a wise subject to share with competitive faction leaders, at the same time

I waited until Tom of the Holler won, before introducing myself. “Hi, you’re a Tom too, right?” I pumped as much positivity into my voice as possible, held out my hand, then worried at the grip I would receive. “Um, I go by Tommy.”

“Of course ya do!” Tom O’Holler boomed and smiled with chalk-white and chalk-dry teeth. “Have a drink!” Rather than shaking my hand, he jammed a tankard the size of his into it.

The tankard looked large in Regent Tom’s fist, in mine it resembled a small barrel. The foamy liquid in the vessel smelled more of honey and flowers than beer or ale and seemed to be a pale green hue. I made a show of drinking, while trying to only sip. The beverage was unmistakably alcoholic, yet refreshingly tart. Tom was clearly well into his cups, so I doubted that he would notice my cautious imbibing.

“I was wondering,” I dived right in, “um, how you felt about this whole Child’s Rite business?”

The big man’s craggy face grew somber briefly and his volume came down to a more normal conversational range, “Terrible shame, that. Hate to think about it.” Even somber his voice had been bold and gravelly.

Hope swelled, Tom was the first spirit-touched of any authority that I had encountered who seemed sympathetic. Further reinforcing my faith in all of my fellow Bearers of the Rust-Red Spear. I asked, “Well, why put up with it then?”

“ _Ha_!” Tom’s laugh boomed and seemed to be genuinely amused. “It’s what they want!” He nodded towards the bronzed Queen.

Which is when I noticed that what I had taken for mossy-colored hair was, in fact, little trees. Tom of the Holler grew a forest from his stony hide; his short beard and mustache included. The boisterous chap also took the phrase ‘bushy eyebrows’ absolutely literally.

“Well, if they were challenged out of office that wouldn’t matter.” I was imagining that the gregarious fellow’s drunkenness would make him more pliable.

“Ha, ha!” Tom almost cracked the solid granite table with the force of his smack, even more amused. “A little wisp like you, thinks he can unseat the likes of them?!”

It was my turn to laugh and I did so just as genuinely. “I don’t even belong to this Court. I am sure you, on the other hand, are more than capable…”

“Me?!” Mr. O’Holler jabbed me with his tankard. “I don’t need no green-foot-leaves-in-hair to be telling me what I’m capable of.” He seemed more serious, but not less jovial.

When I looked down to intercede my mug against Tom’s repeated chest thumpings, I saw that his clothes too were not just mossy-hued. Tom of the Holler’s garments were miniature vibrant vines, lichens, and other leafy ground cover which had grown into the weave of his suit. Furthermore, what I had mistaken for a tie was, instead, a flowing waterfall; which started from a small crevasse in Tom’s throat, pooled slightly at his collar bone, then spilled over his chest, vanishing behind the verdant vest.

Ignoring the sweet smelling splashes on my shirt and the microcosm unfolding before me, as best as I could, I focused on the conversation. I thought I might succeed shifting the emphasize to one of pride. “Hey, if it’s too much for you. If you’re too scare…”

“Listen you glowy little fart!” Mr. O’Holler’s voice remained friendly, even though his brow creased with irritation. Oddly, the charismatic leader’s insults continued to convey camaraderie, “I may look like a mountain, but I ain’t as dumb as a rock.” _Thunk_ , splash, went our tankards.”Redhorn’s at the height of his Season and been gathering power to perform an ancient ritual.” _Thunk_ , splash, at least Tom was spilling as much on himself as me. “He ain’t being unseated by anyone, anytime soon.”

As with Ariadne, I knew that I had lost the argument. Mr. O’Holler simply made too much sense. On the other hand, and also like with Ariadne, I produced one more desperation ploy. “Come on, I bet you can do it. If ya just try, I’ll give you a couple of tickets to the prize fight in Vegas next week.” Privately I was betting that the confrontation would weaken King Redhorn enough to botch the ritual, even if Tom really did lose.

Tom of the Holler narrowed his brown-set-in-white marbles-eyes and thought, for half a second, then asked who was fighting, and I told him. The Man-mountain smiled wide and clapped me on the back. I winced at the stinging sap and the thought of the bruising which would result. I also stumbled and spilled a lot more of my drink. At least, I kept any more of the booze from getting on me.

“Well let’s go!” Tom shook me a little, I lost even more mead. “I didn’t want to hang around watching them poke at a kid anyway!”

“No, no.” I tried to right the keel of my bargaining kayak on the rapids of Mr. Holler’s boisterous misinterpretations. “ _If_ you challenge Redhorn, _then_ I’ll give you both tickets and you can take whomever you’d like. And you get the tickets whether you win or loose.” I smiled, imagining that would sweeten the deal.

Tom of the Holler’s stony-eyes glittered. “Twinkle tongue, I’d rather just challenge you and take the tickets, _when_ I win.” He scooped down and grabbed my ankle.

I saw the grab coming, so I had been able to tense enough to avoid any sprains. Yet, I was not fast enough to avoid being caught. My tankard went flying off. I half expected the force of nature holding me upside down to get mad that I had wasted the alcohol, he had not seemed to notice, though. Luckily, Gavin Granitbane had been watching my exchange and stepped over.

“Heya, Tommy, everything alright.” Gavin asked me, clearly amused that I might get rattled around a bit. I think the ex-rescue worker would have prevented any serious injury, while being equally sure that he would like me to pay for having stuck him in the Dark section of Sheaves & Leaves rare books, a couple of weeks earlier. Also fortuitously, the blood was rushing to my head and speeding my thoughts of self preservation even faster than usual.

“It’s great, now!” My voice was a bit too manic, as I looked to Mr. O’Holler. “Tom of the Holler, this is the guy,” I gestured to Gavin, “that said he could beat you at arm-wrestling, without effort, Gavin _Granitbane_.” Emphasizing my colleague’s surname, I was banking on the dramatic mood swings that I had been witnessing in the summery regent.

“Is that so?!” Tom’s boulder hand released me, as he spoke and turned to Gavin.

Rolling with my fall, I kept rolling out of reach of either rocky muscleman (or muscle-fae, perhaps). Then, I scuttled to a quiet and well-lit corner. I did not look back. I did regret the necessity of the roll itself, though, as it left me covered in an even more unfair amount of sticky spilt beverages and other floor grime.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

** VI **

Iron Wade the Man of Steal found me in my little out of the way corner of the Barrow Mound cathedral, or more accurately, he found the same hiding place as me. Wade’s gun metal grey eyes widened when he saw me, then relaxed when he recognized who I was.

          I had snagged a pitcher of water and a handful of napkins, from one of the dozen sideboards around the nave, then ducked back into the unoccupied inconspicuous space. The pitcher was made of lead crystal and looked like it belonged in a museum, while the napkins had been liberated from a Wendy’s. Regardless, the equipment would serve to deal with the muck I had gathered from rolling on the floor. I had barely started dipping napkins in the water and wiping off my face, when my haggard companion arrived.

“Dodging anyone in particular?” I bobbed my head to indicate the mingling changelings just out of sight.

          “Nah,” Wade said a little too quickly, then put his scar covered hands in his jacket pockets and amended, “not dodging exactly. The Queen was kind of intense and then I tried to talk to the ballerina… uh, Little Misery.”

          “Little Miss Pity,” I corrected automatically as I wiped floor residue from my arm.

          “Yeah,” the weathered fencer took his right hand out long enough to point a cross-hatched affirmation at me, “you’re right, Little Miss Pity.” He shivered slightly. “Anyway, I just needed a breather, to mentally regroup.”

          I nodded in commiseration. “I get what you're saying about Queen Glass, but what happened with Little Miss Pity? She looks so frail.”

Wade leaned back against the wall for a little more comfort. “I thought she might be able to help us in the Court. So, eventually, she finally stopped dancing and the other watchers cleared out enough. Just as I introduced myself, Gavin pulled his stunt and everyone paid attention to the Queen. Afterwards, I grabbed a glass of wine for Miss Pity and tried again.” His sunken eyes looked more haunted than usual. “So, I handed her the glass of wine. We talked a little. I was just about to start my pitch about the Child’s Rite, when I noticed that her glass was frosting over… from her fingers outward.” Leaden-eyes looked at me, as if expecting agreement that the news was one of the creepiest things that I had heard.

I, on the other hand, was only confused that Iron Wade had been unnerved. The tall dower faced man himself constantly smelled of wet leaves and could make his foot and finger-prints turn to small bits of metal shavings. Whether Grace or glamour, at least Little Miss Pity’s chilling touch was useful, if you did not want a warm beverage, and was not nearly as unsettling as extra orifices—like Dark Sol’s hand-maws. In truth, next the palm mouths, I had been more disturbed by Wade being able to run his saber through redcaps with no apparent feeling, than I ever could be at the idea of a delicate ballerina with frosty fingers.

“So, Little Miss Pity, wears the Grace of Winterwater, like Rai does.” I ventured in a dismissing tone, as I shrugged and glanced around the dividing wall for any incoming traffic. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. She looked pretty mopey and that seems to be a tell for that group.”

“Winterwater?” Wade’s brow furrowed. “So, she’s not a member of this Court?”

Our new lives had rattled all of us a little differently. While I had been thrown myself into research at any opportunity and gleaned various details from the people talked to and books read. Iron Wade and the others had been focused on other things, like if he was ‘still himself’ and ‘do laws apply to us anymore?’ Thus, I had won the questionable position of most knowledgeable in our group as far as other spirit-touched, humors, and the like went. Plus, it seemed as if all of my allies suffered from a tumultuous mental landscape of amnesia pits and unfettered memories, as much as me.

So, I grasped that the weatherworn gnarling’s disturbance was not so much Little Miss Pity’s frostiness. Rather Iron Wade was experiencing a mix of bad memory and a narrow expectation of the community. I pulled out and doubled checked my list of Salamander Court movers and shakers, more as a reassuring show, than for need, then clarified, “Nope, she’s a member here. The Court is only currently autumnal, so it is under Redhorn’s and Glass Refractory’s reign.” I tucked away my list and resumed applying dampened napkins to my various stains. “Remember, that little orange hunter-dude, Lor, told us that Jesse Frost and Sly Boots ruled here, for Winterwater? And they were replaced by the Autumnearth people, just last year?” I shrugged. “From what I’ve gathered, every court has members affiliated with every seasonal-humor and the court as a whole is just referred to by whomever is currently in charge... So, Miss Pity is just on Jesse Frost’s team.”

Understanding settled on Mr. the Man of Steal’s leathery face. The ruthless swordsman had still shivered a little whenever he caught sight of the impossibly thin, dancer girl, though. I wondered how long the college teacher ‘come grease monkey’s comprehension would last, as I knew this had been easily the second or third time that he had received the primer. That got me to pause my “bathing” long enough to jot a few reminders in my pocket notepad, as I believed it was t believed my notes were the only thing keeping me from being as addled or more.

          Tegan Bramblerose, Sean Tallwind, and Freerunner wandered over to mine and Iron Wade’s little alcove. I would learn later that the grumbly otter-lad had left Ariadne’s Freehold long before I had and that he had been cavorting outside with the fire-builders and butterfly-collectors, when I had arrived. Raion-ju sort of followed the other three over, although did not join the conversation, preferring to pace around nearby. After a minute or so, Gavin Granitbane also found his way over to us.

By then I had done the best I could with the napkins and water. While I had no remaining stickiness or smudges on my skin, my polo shirt and khakis remained quite splotchy. Retrieving my thigh-length navy-blue jacket from my pack on Gavin’s back, I donned it in an effort to obscure my marred garments.

Mr. Granitbane showed no signs of having been overly strained or battered, from his encounter with Tom of the Holler. Although, with the fellow’s earthy exterior, I was not sure how I would tell, if he was hurt. Making certain that Tegan and Wade were between me and Gavin, I smiled and asked, “So, did ya kick his ass?”

“Hmph,” Gavin’s grunt conveyed mild self-reproach, rather than irritation at me, “Nah, that Tom guy’s tough, he won fair and square.” He flexed his thick right arm and rubbed the squared shoulder with his other hand.

“So, what now?” Iron Wade scanned the group in general.

“Keep up the grass roots push? Tell everyone who will listen about our position.” I recapped for those that had not been (physically or mentally) at our last confab a short while ago.

“Ummm, I’m not sure.” Tegan said sheepishly, emerald eyes downcast, arms crossed, and scuffing a booted foot. “All the people I’ve been talking to seem to feel like it was Red Rhea’s plan and if we want to change the plan we should start with changing her mind.”

Gavin nodded, while stretching his arms over his head. “Yeah, I was getting the same.”

“But what if she’s clouding their minds with magic, won’t she just try that with us?” Sean’s cynical voice echoed my own biggest fear.

“I don’t know,” fair-skinned Tegan glance around at the rest of us, but mostly still watched the floor, “I don’t think our gifts... I mean changeling magic, works that way. My pheromones, or whatever, can effect an area, but not real strongly and it wears off pretty quick, once I’m not around.”

"Ur, yeah, rrmph,” ‘Runner rumbled to Sean, standing hunched as if ready to bolt, “seems like, rrruh something like that errm kinda magic rrerr would need a majorrrrritual.”

Our self proclaimed private-eye started to speak and Freerunner waved a furry hand to forestall the comment. I believed Sean had still been thinking, like me, that if Red Rhea was such a great magical scholar, able to perform the Child’s Rite, then she probably knew lots of potent rituals.

Our round-faced whiskery companion had anticipated the protest correctly, “Mmrr spell like that urm would effect everyone errerr all at once rrmph would leave no rrrroom forrrr doubt. Grrph way too many urrf these people don’t like rrher plan.”

“Okay,” Mr. Tallwind accepted the logic for the sake of it, “but she’d only really need to effect the King and maybe the Queen.”

“Sure,” I jumped in and tried to keep us from drifting too far off course, “but if that’s what happened, then confronting her as a group would mean she could only target one or two of us. And if she needed time for a ritual, she would not have it. So, we should be safe enough to confront her, as a group.”

The group consented, although Sean did add, “If we can’t sway her, then we should probably just knock her out or break her jaw. Then she can’t do the Rite.”

The gleam in the wrinkled fellow mud-colored eye was as unsettling as the casual way Wade and the others had slaughtered the redcaps. However, I did prefer the idea of attacking the zealot, way more than snatching the child sacrifice. So, I nodded reluctant thoughtful approval.

Meanwhile the rest of our enclave merely looked thought, or bored. Apparently, all enthusiasm had been lost in the last few minutes. Gavin was not even very interested in Sean’s “take out Rhea” idea, which had seemed like something right up his alley. Yet, as Tegan become disheartened, so had the rest. Since, Ms. Bramblerose and Mr. Granitbane were our de facto leaders, for our whole anti-Child’s Rite campaign, I went along with the group.

In fact, the auburn-haired bloomwell had cooled so much to the idea of thwarting the ritual, that she straightened up and looked at each of us more directly, “Yeah, I definitely want to speak with Red Rhea. But if we can’t change her mind, then I think we should just drop the issue.”

Gavin hung his big blocky orange head, but nodded his agreement.

The decision rankled me as self-defeatist and borderline surrender. Yet, I was infantry in the conflict and it was not my place to countermand the generals. Besides, fighting for fights sake was not also as entertaining as I liked. Plus, I had mostly just wanted to drop the issue from the start. So, I just kept quiet and chewed my lip, worrying about how bad the Red Rhea meeting was likely to be, considering how my visits with Ariadne, Queen Glass, and Tom of the Holler had gone.

That was about when Tegan made a gesture, which turned out to be her summoning over Baron Samdi. The decaying Baron had apparently been lingering out of earshot, yet within sight of Miss Bramblerose. When the skeletal figure arrived, our alluring bloomwell introduced him to our group, then requested that he introduce us to Red Rhea.

I blinked with impressed surprise at Tegan’s use of social etiquette. I could only assume that she had picked up pointers while canvassing the courtiers.

The Baron somehow made his tuxedo and top hat look more suave than dapper, an effect enhanced by his rich and thick Caribbean accent. The skeletal man pronounced, “Aye, dat can be done, yeah. But now is not a good time, ya know. Da Red Rhea most likely don’t wanna be disturbed and all dat.”

With a that accent and smooth delivery, I clued into how Miss Bramblerose might have been able to overlook the corpse-face which produced it. To some extent, even I just wanted to listen to the Baron talk for the sake of it. Thankfully, though, it was a two-way street.

Tegan pouted her pillowy, bright blood-red lips and twirled a lock of deep-crimson around a delicate finger, “Please, introduce us. It’s really important.” Long lashes fluttered over emerald orbs and Baron Samdi led us off to Rhea.

 

Outside the late-afternoon sun was lost in a sky thick with a blanket of low- hanging charcoal-colored cloud cover. Scents of burning wood and chill rain wrestled back and forth on gusts of howling wind and between deathly calms. The forest, around the Barrow Mound, had grown even more full of gloomy, thorny, and gnarled vines, branches, and brush. I could almost feel the arcane energies infusing the environment, building and bending toward the eminent ancient ritual. It was like ghost spiders crawling beneath my skin, all rushing in the direction which we walked.

I Attempted to counter the feeling by imagining that if it was a ritual of Springair, in mid-March, conducted by a sanguine court. The forest would instead be bursting with lush blooms, fresh life, and gentle showers. The unbidden images of Sleepy Hollow and haunted forests superimposed themselves on my daydream. So, I concentrated on increasing my moonlight radiance as bright as possible, to light our way and hold back some of the encroaching darkness. I also drew forth and spit out another match, although the chill along my spine turned out to be something that my Summer’s Embrace could not dispel.

As our gang traversed the tangled woods, Baron Samdi chatted with us—well, he chatted with Tegan mostly. The mobile-corpse largely put up with the rest of our troupe, as if we were the gorgeous bloomwell’s entourage. Gavin was oblivious to Samdi’s disinterest, he filled most of the time attempting to get the Baron to see our point of view regarding the Child’s Rite. Even though it was clear from Tegan's expression that she had already failed to sway the Baron, none of us interrupted Gavin. If nothing else, it was an innocuous thing to take our minds off of the pervasive Briar.

Barron Samdi chuckled, “You all is fresh turned soil, ta be sure, and over emotional ta boot. Dese are da old ways.” He spread his thin arms expansively and shook his bony-head slightly. Then went on with his out-of-place island accent, “Dey is rules set down before dey be time.” He waggled a bony finger at Gavin. “You younguns comes along, all fresh and still connected to dis…” he waved his rotting hand dismissively, “dis technology. You tink you can do dis Google and you know some-ting. Fah!”

Samdi led the rest of us into a new smaller clearing. The area was lit by a few small campfires. A roughly four-foot square two-foot high stone slab squat in the center of the space, below a sliver of dark sky which the clearing made through the jutting branches. Various spirit-touched gathered around the clearing’s edge, staying within the tree cover, mostly out of the firelight.

Red Rhea moved about the parameter of the area, with measured purpose; her hooded-cloak, seemingly made of living butterflies, swept the ground behind her, widening the wake of her Autumnearth Grace of spontaneous fallen leaves. The six-foot tall scholar was

Built like a willowy runway model with brown flecked birch-bark skin and a tangle of maple-red hair with yellow and orange highlights, under the butterfly-hood. Rhea’s face was long and sharp, as if carved. The Lady also wore a candy-apple red Italian-Renaissance style dress, adorned with gold embroidery and tiny flame-colored jewels.

Ms. Rhea approached a tree and affix a butterfly to it, via thumbtack, then she used her fingertip to mark the bark with blood, or possibly berry juice. Then the Lady would move sedately to another tree, in no obvious order, and repeat the process. Occasionally, Rhea would lift a caterpillar from a fold in her garments and hold it to her face, to whisper to the bug.

A scrawny African-American boy, maybe nine or ten years old, trailed after Red Rhea. The lad’s hair was short and he looked well-scrubbed, although he wore a ragged t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. The boy also carried a large tome. From time to time, the kid would make marks in the book with a pen as the red scholar gave some unheard instruction.

I boggled at the idea that the sacrifice was helping Rhea in this way. Either the tall scholar did have strong mind control abilities, or that lad was not the Child’s Rite sacrifice. If the former, then I had to wonder if our theory was off and Red Rhea really could bend my whole p[arty to her will. In the latter case, I could not imagine what that said about Rhea’s character to employ a child in this manner… Unless, the spirit-touched woman and seemingly normal human boy were related in some way. Although, that would only make the situation more tenuous.

Red Rhea’s spied our group and her harsh face became more stern, as she strode over to us. After a moment of hard appraisal, Red Rhea stared fixedly at Tegan Bramblerose, “What did you imagine you were doing?”

“I, uh,” Our bloomwell’s green eyes flashed around nervously, as a pink flush spread along her delicate neck and freckled cheeks. However, in half a breath Tegan rallied her conviction, straightened her back, and stared back into Rhea’s rich auburn-eyes, “I was trying to determine your true motivation for doing this ritual.” She gestured to the clearing.

Later Miss Bramblerose would verify that she had spoke true and that Springair had taught her the secrets of a glamour for learning a person’s foremost desire. The arcane scholar had been too self-assured for the glamour to function, though.

“You could have asked.” Rhea’s voice rasped like paper on paper, jutting out one hip to provide purchase for the corresponding hand. “I am endeavoring to protect the children of this region, so that they may have a chance to develop enough life of their own. And I am busy with preparation in this place.” Her tone, while authoritative, was neither indignant or aloof. ”Perhaps, you shall find vantage outside of the clearing.” Tegan’s voice remained steady and polite, even as she clenched frustrated fists behind her back. “However, those actions may only coincide with other possible motives.” She took and released a deep breath. “Which is why I did what I did. And why we need to speak with you, now.”

Red Rhea sagged, almost imperceptibly, and looked a little more tired, “What have you to say?”

“Is there no other way?” Tegan asked. “Surely, there must be some way other than harming the child, in which to achieve the same effect?”

Even as I hoped that Ms. Bramblerose was counting on her bloomwell aroma, to sway Red Rhea, I cringed at her “tactic”. Choosing to allow Red Rhea to provide answers, seemed weak to me. My method would have been to present our findings and make Ms. Rhea defend her position. However, I clenched my own fists and jaw, I was not in charge and had already made the decision to stop pressing powerful fae on this matter. If nothing else, it was refreshing to witness someone else ear the searing gazes, for a change.

“It is an ancient pact, betwixt eternal forces and immortal concepts.” Red Rhea held Tegan in her unwavering gaze. “All compacts have there price and the child's fear and pain is the cost of bartering this one.”

“Why the focus on children?” Iron Wade’s smoker’s-rasp cut in, as if something in Rhea’s responses that provoked him. “What about others?”

Rhea’s features tightened, subtly, as if she were steeling herself. I wondered if any of my companions saw the weariness.

“I offer what protection I am able.” Read Rhea’s dry voice turned to a more gentle tutor’s tone. When the Bright Ones take, the young cannot find their ways back to this world. With this ritual, the children will be given the opportunity to create connections here which may lead them back. Or possibly keep them from ever being lost.” Her eyes flickered soulfully for a moment. “I hold out hope that I shall one day discover the missing secrets of more powerful protections, someday. However, there are too many places that need what I have already learned, for me to dedicate any time to that pursuit.”

The ties of my own mortal life flashed before me, highlighting how few I had truly formed. Especially, how rarely I had called or visited my parents or brother. I swallowed hard knowing full well these were the important connects of which Rhea spoke. If it had not been for a hidden timing clause of the Faustian contract into which Dr. Anwynn’s had duped me, I doubted that I would have had enough threads to have found my way to freedom.

“But,” Tegan tried again, her hands now forward and as open as her pleading emerald-eyes, “why must you sacrifice a child?”

Our swordsman tried to help, “Is there no other method of payment for the ritual? I know glamours have tricks to make them work, but they can still be powered by wyrd instead.”

I was impressed that Iron Wade the Man of Steal had been able to recall that much detail, regarding glamour.

While, Red Rhea merely sighed, “Your weak modern glamours could never ward off a Bright One, for exactly that reason. Such magic is inherently too flexible, to offer any shielding from the wily Folk.” She shook her head regretfully. “The ancient rites are specific, and tragic, and have unforgiving requirements, and provide unassailable results.”

The summery fascinated me. After reading so many accounts of rituals and glamours, in the previous few days, I still barely grasped the concepts. It was like the difference between reading the instructions for building a car and actually having an experienced engineer show you. I found myself relaxing and starting to wonder if I would be able to speak with Red Rhea at grater length, after the ritual in question was complete.

“Can we not do something that requires more effort on our part and more often, while not exacting any blood?” asked Tegan.

Rhea’s sculptural eyebrows raised and knotted in confusion.

I had winced at my cohorts convoluted allusions to our own research. I was about to snap out a more clear re-wording, when Tegan caught sight of my expression and beat me to it. “That is to say, what of the Rite of Hospitality? If the Court members all worked together, we could canvas Athens in a day or so.”

As much as I had wanted to put my colleagues in their rhetorical places, I realized that Tegan’s reasonable tone had been a better option. While I would have intended my peevish version of the question to embarrass the rigid bloomwell, realistically it probably would have sounded as if I were insulting Red Rhea. I recomposed myself, while Lady Rhea considered, for a moment.

“Athens is but one small city in the whole region.” The slender redhead swirled a birch-white finger in a tight circle, then made a larger one with both hands. “The Child’s Rite will protect all the children of the Midwest Territories, not just this one town.”

“At the cost of one child’s life per year.” Tegan sounded a little pleading and a little disgusted.

Red Rhea’s expression became sympathetic, “The child will not die.”

“Fine,” Tegan flapped her hands a little, exasperated, “mangled then.”

“And besides,” Iron Wade cut in again, “why protect against all the Bright Ones? It’s one in particular, the Lord of Death, and he has only been targeting Athens.”

I flinched and looked about the trees, as did Baron Samdi. One of my allies had discovered that Lord of Death was a more colorful moniker applied to Dr. Anwynn, when not masquerading as a Kendal research physician. That Bright One was the one responsible for dragged us all off to, and selling us in, the Lands Beyond the Thorns. Furthermore, a much more experienced and scholarly member of the Freehold had warned me against speaking such names, especially in the Briar. Lest the Folk hears and is able to rack the sound back to its source, a skill many of Them possess.

The Lady Scholar merely blinked, inquisitively. “How can you know that?”

Tegan answered. “We were at the last Kendal clinical trial that He ran, fourteen years ago. When that went bust, that is when the kids started missing more and more, all from in and around Athens. We did the research.”

I leaned over to Baron Samdi and stage whispered, “We Googled it.” The skeleton neither moved nor made any sound, so I have no idea if he had a reaction.

Red Rhea nodded. “Be that as it may-- and assuming you are correct-- protecting the city alone will most likely just drive him one town over. The Child’s Rite will use a single child’s lasting fear to protect all the children of the whole territory.” She looked slightly manic.

“The child must be hurt in the process,” Rhea’s tired voice remained steady. “however they shall not be killed or mangled. I have performed this many times before. The child will have a few lasting scars, but no crippling damage.”

I noticed Red Rhea’s young companion twitch. looking closer, at the pre-adolescent boy, I saw that he had welted-scars on the backs of each hand. The marks were old, yet appeared as if they had been deep. Reflexively I nudged my neighbor and pointed to the lad’s hands.

The far more scarred Sean Tallwind happened to be that neighbor. The bag of sin and old burns stepped forward and knelt down, to be more at eyelevel with the lad. “Hi there,” Sean clearly attempted to soften his gruff tone to a friendly range, “my names Sean, what’s yours?”

The young boy tried to step more into the folds of Red Rhea’s red-velvet dress. Rhea answered, “This is my assistant, Homer.”

The would-be investigator realized he was scaring Homer and stood to address Rhea bitterly. “Do you use the same child each time?”

The regal lady met Sean's stare. “The child must be from the territory that is to be protected.”

“if protecting the City,” Tegan’s pristine brow was lightly creased with deep thought. “would only push the Folk one town over, won’t warding the territory just push Them to the next territory?”

The question hit Red Rhea hard enough that she took a half-step back. In addition to looking more burdened, fear tugged at the sharp-edges of the Lady’s eyes. Swallowing hard, regal Rhea regained her composure. “I must do what I am able, for as long as I am able.”

The attitude of my companions seemed to have shifted, each at different points during the dialogue. Seeing Rhea’s stricken reaction was what finally swayed me. Rather than arrogant and superior, I saw the value of the zealous commitment. As I glanced sheepishly away from the Red Scholar, I saw my feelings mirrored on my contrite allies.

Tegan put forward one last hopeful question. “Can the child be healed afterwards?”

“Are _you_ offering to take responsibility for the child after the ceremony?” Rhea’s dark eyes widened in surprise.

“Well, I have a glamour which can mend some physical discomfort.” The more curvaceous ROTC cadet replied. “As well as first aid training.”

“The sacrifice’s ongoing pain and fear fuel the ongoing protection of the Child’s Rite.” Rhea was quick to reply. “Using magic to remove the either would likely remove that portion of the protection.” Her thin lips pursed thoughtfully. “However, mortal care and medicines should not affect the ward.”

“What’s going to happen to the child afterwards?” asked Wade.

“That is a matter for the Court of Hawk Wood.” Rhea rasped, while reconstructing her composed posture. “I shall be proceeding, to head of the overflow into the next territory.” She made an unnecessary, skirt-straightening brush and glared at each of us, as if daring us to waste more of her time. “Now, if there is nothing more, I really must complete my preparations.”

In compliance, my company retreated into the woods a ways and held another quick conference. Tegan, Iron Wade, and Gavin all agreed that they felt there was nothing more to be done, even though the Child’s Rite had not become more palatable as a concept. Plus, concerns of deception lingered, so most of the group expressed intent to watch the ritual hawk-like, for any sign of false representation. It was only Sean Tallwind and myself who felt that the proceedings would be most tolerable from secondhand reports, so we two made a way back into the Salamander Mound.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

** VII **

Sean Tallwind and I found our way back to the nave. I even almost found myself respecting the wrinkle-covered gnarling, for sharing my disinterest in the ritual. Though, I was less enthusiastic about imbibing as much of the free green-beer as I could get down my gullet. Even so, if it had not been for my general antsiness, I might have attempted some drunken commiseration. Especially, when my initial plan fell through.

          I had hoped to hang out with Tom of the Holler, since he had also been so disinterested in the Child’s Rite. I imagined that Mr. O’Holler’s boisterous attitude and directness might be distracting enough to keep my mind off of whatever Red Rhea might be doing, to achieve her goal. Unfortunately for me, mountainous Tom had to attend the Child’s Rite, due to his high rank amongst the Salamander courtiers.

For similar reasons, there was very few other spirit-touched left in the cathedral-like barrow. Those few fae turned out to be too mopey, sulky, timid, or obstinate to be missed at the ritual gathering. Thus, they were also the least capable of basic distracting small-talk. My dogged attempts to engage the courtiers only resulted in quickly discovering that my colleagues and I were all mistrusted, for having so vehemently and vocally pressed to go against the King and Queen’s desires. At worst we were dangerous instigators, at best social pariahs.

It only took a minute or two, of brooding on my own, to conclude that it was not what I wanted to be doing. I had to little self pity for wallowing and too much nervous anxiety to sit still. I even tried to sit with Sean one more time, which was not much better than sitting alone. Attempts to engage Mr. Tallwind only met with abrupt snide sarcasm, or inattentive grunts.

Inevitably, my agitated curiosity overthrew my moral superiority. So, I renewed my Summer’s Embrace and stomped back out of the mound and towards those gathering in the overgrown Briar.

The bulk of the Court of the Midwest Territories had gathered in clusters within the crowding brambles and vines, encircling Red Rhea’s clearing. The small campfires around the ritual stone barely cast any illumination beyond the very edge of the cleared space. The air was so still that the campfires barely flickered. Yet, rustling sounds and breaking bows overwhelmed any other small or whispered noises. The wood-smoke odor gave the air an acidic taste. The smoke itself churned and mixed with fog in the trees, casting a grey filter over everything and adding to the shadows to obscure anyone not actually within the clearing. The thermal comfort of my glamour left me to guess that the air was still cold, especially as the semi-acrid haze obscured any clouds of breath.

Brightening my faery light, as much as I could, I still had to watch my footing carefully. The vines and roots of the Briar practically lashed out to entangle, as I wedged and squirmed my way through the huddled spirit-touched. Having spotted Tom of the Holler and, I was determined to watch the Child’s Rite travesty, beside the one changeling that I had met who seemed to have his priorities straight.

My cautious travel and the environment itself meant that I was unable to see what was transpiring in the ritual area. Also, I was only able to half pay attention to the reactions and attitudes of the spirit-touched around me. The assembled fae were certainly tense and expectant, however with enthusiasm or trepidation or for some other reason, I just could not tell. A little more edging forward and the only speech that I heard was Red Rhea intoning some foreign, probably ancient, language.

Meanwhile, wind rushed howling into the canopy, yet the air around the ritual circle became even more still and tomb like. I bit my lip wondering if I should be grateful that the child sacrifice was not crying out. Then, just as I reached the summery Regents side, the crowd gasped in unison. Rhea began shouting and I saw a look of shocked disbelief on Tom’s craggy face.

Now in a position to see into the clearing, I made a quick assessment of the scene. Red Rhea was standing next to the stone block. Homer, Rhea’s young assistant, clung to his mistress’s crimson dress with one scrawny arm, while hugging the massive leather-bound tome with his other. Homer’s wide hazel-eyes were brimming with mute terror. The arcane-scholar was calling out, “Someone, anyone, go after the boy! Quick, before he goes too far!”

A large dark masculine-form moved smoothly into the clearing, near to Red Rhea. It took a couple of moments for me to recognize the tensely ready fellow as my associate Raion-ju. It was the most lively that I had ever seen the cat-like lad, as he paced a tight line next to the ritual area. Rai’s deep basso roared, for all to hear, “Someone invisible took the boy! It was one person that reeked of rot and sickness!” He shook his head as if to clear his nostrils.

Jesse Frost, wearing a pale-blue gown, her/his white hair and skin a glistening beacon in the firelight, was, was at the edge of the clearing across from where I stood. The androgynous regent started to echo Red Rhea’s demands for someone to go after the boy. Jesse had a frantic expression which I assumed was exacerbated from having recently lost her/his nephew.

More of the scene resolved into my comprehension. A freestanding red, wooden door and frame had been added to the clearing, near the stone block. The door looked as if it could belong to almost any room in almost any home and it stood open in its frame. Through the frame was clearly a distinctly different portion of the Briar.

Additionally, a plain-pine child’s coffin rested on the edge of the makeshift stone table. Fresh glistening-blood-stains were in the coffin and on the ground near it.

There was also a circle inscribed around the stone slab, probably by the staff that Red Rhea’s clutched tightly. Even frantic, the red lady and Homer were both very careful not to cross the circle’s edge.

Tegan Bramblerose, Iron Wade the man of Steal, and Gavin Granitbane pushed their way through the now milling changelings, to join our vaguely feline ally at beside portable-portal. The din of the leaves and creaking-cracking limbs had been added to by the chaotic spirit-touched murmurings, so anything shy of shouting could not be heard from any distance. Thus, I saw my allies conversing with the distraught ritualist, yet I could not get near enough sooner than to hear the last part of a question posed by Iron Wade. “… used the door in the first place?!”

Ms. Rhea’s bitterness cut through her panic. “Since many opposed the ritual—as well you know—I kept Joey there.” One lone whitish finger pointed to the magic red-doorway, ”To make certain that he would remain safe, until he was needed!” The knuckles of her hand clasping the large staff were yellowed and ashen with strain.

“Now we are trapped!” Rhea gestured first to Homer, then the whole assemblage. ”Once the Child’s Rite has been started, Homer and I may not leave the circle,” another sweeping gesture, indicating the ground before her, “until the ritual is complete, or the sun rises!” Red Rhea’s normally subtle expressions were contorted with fear, “Leaving the circle or time running out, either way that causes the ritual to fail!”

Tegan was in her military-trained crisis mode, at attention, remaining calm, assessing the situation, and acting decisively. The confident redhead took a step closer to Rhea and asked, “What happens, if the ritual does fail?”

Rhea’s sharply sculpted face went from contorted fear to discolored bloodless-ashen abject-terror and she mumbled something about “…backlash…”

In addition to that grim factor, Red Rhea’s earlier dig, about knowing that people wanted to thwart the ritual, had not been lost on us. I could see that my allies, like me, believed that the lady referred to us—In addition to other parties. However, I could not be sure that my comrades realized, as I had, the implied threat. Our cabal had been publically vocal about wanting to stop the Child’s Rite and now it was stopped. Plus, we were new to the area and had sworn no loyalties to this Court or the nearby Freehold. If bad things happened because of the ritual being interrupted, my group where just the right size for the frame—as Sean Tallwind would probably say.

Iron Wade may have been thinking the same, as he shouted indignantly to the unsettled assemblage. “Fine!  We _courtless latecomers,_ “ he emphasized the words sarcastically as he looked towards Queen Glass, “will go and clean up your mess for you, buncha worthless cowards!"

I grin approvingly at Wade’s rage and wondered if he could be convinced to lay aside his melancholic humor and pick up Summerfire’s Rusted Spear, instead. I was also disappointed to agreed with the scar-handed chap’s assessment of the Court’s overall courage. Some people had moved forward for a closer look, however more had moved away, and none of the courtiers had made steps to assist Red Rhea or seek the abducted child. At least the couple of choleric members, that I spied, were clearly acting as bouncers or riot cops might, to calm and protect their fellow courtiers, so I could be somewhat forgiving of their priority choice.

Then, I had a mental flash of how the zealous scholar was also an outsider to this Court and how the arcane Rite’s backlash may only effect her…and young Homer. I shivered at the idea that the Hawk Wood Court would be so selfishly callous. “Luckily”, I did not have time to muse over such possibilities.

My team’s heavy hitters, Rai and Gavin, stepped through the rectangular portal, as our swordsman had been derisively issuing our retrieval services. Plus, Freerunner had entered the clearing, dragging Sean Tallwind, as fast as his limp would allow, also making a beeline for the red-door.

Red Rhea regained some composure, to called out to us, “The portal will only remain connected to that location for less than an hour, now! It shall connect elsewhere in the Tangle, every hour thereafter! It will be a full day before it returns to that place!” She pointed through the magic doorframe. “If you cannot find Joey before the portal moves, you must return by some other route, before dawn!”

“We shall return the boy in plenty of time!” I tried to assure loudly enough for all gathered to hear. I hoped to stave off any creeping doubts anyone might be harboring. For a little extra bravado, I also said, “You assembled should spend your time thinking up suitable rewards for when we do succeed!”

It was not until I had passed well out of the court’s hearing that I smacked my head in frustration over my choice of words. The Salamanders might easily interpret what I had said as part of an elaborate extortion. First we make nuisances of ourselves, then snatch the kid, then are the first to act, but only for a reward. It would be a decent con. Then I shook my head, decent only if , but then we had secured a suitably grand payment before walking through the magic door.

Meanwhile, events where moving fast and many little details lodged in my perception. Mr. Granitbane had glamoured his skin to harder grey-stone, while following Raion-ju. Iron Wade passed through next, saying, “Thanks for nothing, bitch.” to Rhea, though I doubt she could hear him. Tegan followed close behind Wade. I was next, doubting that the Man of Steal was as suitable to Summerfire’s Grace, considering Rhea had just provided useful information. ‘Runner and Sean came rushing through, on my heels, with a half-dozen ferrets running along at theirs. It would quickly become clear that the weasels were part of a glamour which hirsute ‘Runner had employed. Then, as I turned to learn if the door would remain open, Dark Sol separate herself from the deep shadows, near King Redhorn, and slipped through the magical doorway, just as it did indeed close.

On the other side was cold darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

** VIII **

Before the deceptively mundane door clicked shut, the far side of the far distant Briar had already been quite dark. The firelight from the ritual side of the doorway more trickled than poured through the portal. Also I had instinctively dampened my luminous aura as low as possible, in order to minimize my potentially being a target for the kidnapper or their allies. It was impossible to tell if the red door had closed of its own magical volition or from having been pushed by an hawk Wood courtier, though I suspected the latter, as the door had stood open the whole time prior. Either way, the reduction of even that meager illumination, left my party in a stark and chilly blackness.

My faery-light did not radiate from me, per se, anyone witnessing the illuminated area could not follow shadows back in order to pin-point me at the center. Instead the magical effect simply bathed everything within five or six paced of my in a directionless moonlight. However, the dimmer I made my aura the more it also seemed to constrict. So, in the pitch blackness, my barely one candle-power left me as the only visible thing, in a gentle glow-haze. Thus, my first thought was, “Crap, guessed wrong!” and I sighed with self disappointment.

Rather than less of a target, my instincts had made me the only one. My whirling mind touched on simply increasing my faery-light, then grabbed hold of a brighter idea (pun intended). The secrets to activate glamours are not always clearly related to the outcome and sometimes one glamour is a secret within another. So, in order to teach me Summer’s Might, the personification of my seasonal-humor had needed to teach me a glamour that I never really expected to use. I concentrated on the glamour’s construction, metaphorically reached for the necessary wyrd, said aloud to my allies “Fair warning, I’m turning on the lights!”, and cast High Noon.

Two things occurred, one internal and one for everyone nearby. Personally, I “felt” a mild itchy-pang in the imaginary space that I used to keep track of my wyrd. It was a sensation that I had not felt for weeks. Since I had figured out the malaise-yearning was the equivalent of being hungry for wyrd, I simply had made sure to never get too low for too long. Now I found myself far from any sources of the mystical energy and very low. I shook my head with more self recrimination, I had lost track of how much Fairest Tongue and Fortune’s Favor I had been burning throughout the day. I had believed myself possessed of a modicum of innate faery luck, though felt that may have all gone, if I had to learn what wyrd withdrawal was like in this manner.

Meanwhile, the external effect had been that an area, roughly the size of a football field around me and my colleagues, shone with a bright golden light. While still no emanating from me, the new magical radiance was more distinctly centered on me. Thus, all the sharp shadows around me were cast outward, as if I were the hub and they the spokes of an abstract wheel. With the wider range, also better revealing my cohorts, I had gambled a greater net reduction of me being targeted by lurking enemies. Also, those enemies would have been more likely to have been exposed.

As a bonus, my comrades’ expressions were finally suitably impressed for a change. Clearly my fellows had expect my announcement to be followed by my typical gentle light. As much as I wanted to delight in their astonished faces, I instead bit my lip and looked with frantic concern to the anachronistic red-door.

          Dark Sol, in her knee-high black-boots and tight black jeans, flitch-scrambled to flip her black sweat-jacket hood over her platinum-blond hair; zipping the front and pulling the drawstrings tight. As with most fae of darkling predilections, Sol suffered what appeared to be fairly unpleasant day-sickness. So, my pale-amber eyes darted to the goth-girl’s hands, expecting that she might lash out at me for having unleashed the barrowed patch of noontime. Whether an attack was premeditated or instinctive would not have matter, though I would have believed either explanation.

          Most concerning for me was that Sol’s hands were even more dangerous than Tegan’s black-belt martial-arts trained appendages. I had found a few references to “vitalityleeches”, during my time with Ariadne’s rare books, and the descriptions fit Dark Sol to a tee. Theoretically, the energy draining was more common from pre-existing orifices, however there had been enough changelings twisted by the Folk in unsettling way, to make hand-maws a known reactance.

          Either my luck had not completely left me, or Sol had some of her own. After a couple of deep breaths, it became apparent that the faery sunlight which High Noon provided was somehow unreal enough that the darkling was not adversely effected.

          With my threat-meter back in standard caution range, I was able to appreciate the stunning effect of the combined magics of my High Noon and Sol’s own darkling nature. Since escaping our captivities, daylight had made the pale lass look wan, saggy, waxy, chalky, and overall ill. Night granted Dark Sol a vibrant luster. Combining the nocturnal appearance with full-spectrum day-like light meant the slinky woman’s flawless ivory skin virtually shone with reflected radiance, the bit of her hair that I glimpsed was like glossy cream, and her eerie all-black eyes became beckoning dark pools.

          After verifying that no vitality draining palm-mouth were headed towards me and appraising Sols haunting beauty for a blink or two, I turned my attention to the wilderness surroundings. The foliage was what I had come to expect of the untamed Wilder Wood, rather than what the Child’s Rite had made of the vegetation near the Salamander Court. A canopy of large old growth trees still interlocked over head blocking out any access to the sky. However, that natural ceiling was proven to be dozens of feet high, instead of seeming to loom within reach as it had in the inky darkness. Smaller trees and bushes strived to eke out a living between the wide space old growth. Ferns and ivies blanketed most every part of the forest floor. My glamour-light gave the brilliant fall colors above us the impression that our roof was frozen fire, and made the mostly knee-high greenery seem lush. Of course, even with the magic light we still only saw about forty or fifty feet in any direction because of all the plants and starkly foreboding shadows which my pretend sunlight cast.

At least, the dense vegetation also reduced any wind to barely a breeze, thus minimizing the frosty November night. Realizing that I was shivering from the cold, as much as the situation, I struck a camping match and spit on the flame, for more Summer’s Embrace. I then pinched the end of the spent match and placed it in a second matchbox which I kept for the purpose. I was not keen to litter normally and in the dry autumnal woods…. “Only you can prevent forest fires”, and all that.

The only sounds, other than me, my seven allies, and Freerunner’s enchanted ferrets, were distant and typical for any nocturnal forest. So, the creaking and skittering noises were relatively unsetting for how unusual such normalcy was within the thorny Briar.

It only took our party a minute or so to assess options and split into agreed upon actions. Raion-ju and Tegan Bramblerose could use the glamour for finding their way through the Edge maze, however without more details and the missing sacrifice being a moving target, the chances of wandering into one of the Briar’s endless dangers was very high. Luckily, Tegan’s ROTC training had covered a certain amount of wilderness tracking and Rai’s preternatural senses gave both of them an another starting point. Plus, while I had yet to be impressed with Sean Tallwind’s supposed detective skills, he too proceeded to look for clues. Our trackers also included ‘Runner’s own enhanced senses and his hand full of furry weasel friends.

Gavin Granitbane’s fireman training was more suited to rescuing people from burning buildings, than hunting them in a forest. So, the earthen fellow took more a guard type duty, to fend off anything dangerous that the Wilder Wood may through at us. Iron Wade the Man of Steal drew froth and strapped on his saber, from a blueprint tube. So, the dour fencer shared in the lookout duties.

Iron Wade had somehow had the tube slung to his back the whole evening, yet I had not registered it. I could not decide if I should be worried about how little attention I had been paying to my housemates I general, or if the scar-handed gnarling had been employing a minor obfuscation glamour. I was not sure the former mattered, considering how little they seemed to pay attention to me. On the other hand, the latter option suggested that Wade might be starting to cope with spirit-touched life better than I had thought.

That left me and Dark Sol, both eager to find the boy, who Red Rhea had referred to as Joey, yet without any immediately practical skills to that end. Besides my bright illumination, that is. So, the lithe darkling and I just did our best to stay out of the way, while the others searched for clues or threats.

I had thought that our gang had rushed through the magic portal fast enough to still be within easy sensory range of Joey and his smelly invisible abductor. Sadly, time was not always reliable in the Tangle and effectively teleporting must have screwed with that a little further. A situation made worse, we would shortly come to suspect, for our prey being at least somewhat familiar with the terrain.

Our sleuths methodically stooped and inspected the ground and ground cover. Limpy Mr. Tallwind looked even more ancient than usual, as he made his slow shuffling way. Perhaps to take Sean’s mind off of his physical discomforts he asked, “So, what exactly happened back there? I was in the main hall the whole time and ‘Runner just burst in and said the kid vanished and you all were goin’ after ‘im.”

          “Yeah, uh, me too.” I wanted to participate in some way. “I mean, I got there before Sean, uh, but still too late to see what happened.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I, uh, only just got in position, uh, just as Rai made his pronouncement.”

“It was pretty grim and creepy, but not nearly as gruesome as I had expected,” Tegan conceded, as she bent at her narrow waist and gently lifted some brush, to get a better view of the ground.

It was very hard for me to look away, to the next speaker. Had I been within the bloomwell’s flowery scent, I would probably have stood transfixed and drooling. In the back of my mind, part of me started trying to work out how to test exactly how far the magic of Tegan’s aromatic aura extended.

“Yeah, that’s true.” Agreed weathered Wade, from where he stood, sword in hand, at the edge of my High Noon’s light, watching into the dark forest. “Anyway, there was a little blond boy in that box…”

“Argh!” Sol’s exasperated exclamation was accepted with a toss of porcelain hands. “You’re skipping the whole beginning.”

Iron Wade shrugged one shoulder, indicating that he did not think the information was important. Even so, the at one time fencing instructor let the at one time literature major tell the story.

“Okay,” Sol went on when she was sure she had the floor—as it were, “Everyone had gathered around that small butterfly-strewn clearing. Red Rhea had already made her circle in the dirt, around the stone altar.” The naturally talkative lass warmed to her subject, emphasizing key details with tone and gestures.

“Lady Rhea, clapped and nodded to the west. From that side of the clearing two big guys, like the size of Rai and Gavin, came out of the crowd, carrying a red door in it’s frame.” Sol was good enough at reading her audience that she could tell most of them did not particularly want a lot of embellishment, or even detail, so she kept the recap simple. “They set the door upright near the circle and waited for Red Rhea to come over, touch the door, and say some arcane words. The lady then waited in her circle, while the two lackeys went through the door and came back with a small coffin.”

It was obvious, from how the darkling narrator’s pale eyelids hovered half-closed and her breathing sped up, that even the idea of the coffin excited her. “They carried the coffin to the altar and returned to the crowd.”

“They left the door open?” Sean’s gruff voice rasped into the narrative.

“Yeah, I thought that was weird at the time too.” Wade agreed.

Standing vigil, at an opposing point on the illuminated parameter from Wade, Gavin shrugged large block-shoulders, “I just thought that this was where Red Rhea was going to exit to, after the… uh, ritual.”

It seemed like Mr. Granitbane had almost said “show” or “performance”. Which made me wonder what that would say about the rocky fellow’s mentality about watching a child be tortured. I very consciously made my face remain neutral, rather than letting it frown, or betray the horror such thought instilled.

“For whatever reason, “Sol placed her hands on her hips, accentuating her slender waist, and stared at the interjectors, “yes, the portal was left open.” Her voice returned to it’s more pleasant story teller tones. “Once alone in the circle with her assistant and the coffin, Red Rhea began chanting. She moved about the circle, the little black boy following her with that big book open. I did not see Red Rhea check the book, but maybe she did.”

Dark Sol took a deep breath through her nose and let her inky eyes close all the way, in anticipation and relish of what came next. “Red Rhea produced a claw-hammer, from her robes. She pried open the coffin, which had been nailed shut. Inside, was the young, blond boy.” A pale grey tongue flicked out to moisten her ash-colored lips. “ The boy had seemed hypnotized, or maybe like he was sleep walking.” More quickened breaths.

“Red Rhea continued to intone, while she drew forth long thorns from her robes. The thorns where at least two or three inches long and the Lady pushed them through the boy. One through each hand and foot.” Sol’s throaty words quickened to catch up to her breathing. “The child was horrified and in pain, but he didn’t cry out. Then, Red Rhea lifted the dazed boy out of his coffin and placed him standing on the ground,” the macabre narrator grinned widely, “where he stood painfully shuffling from foot to foot.” Her stretched grin deflated into a pout. “Then, the boy bent over and floated, backwards, through the door. And that’s when all the panic started.”

          “That’s it? He just flew away? backwards?” Sean looked to Sol and moved his right-hand slowly from left to right, with the too-long too-thin fingers pinched together and pointing left.

          “Well, that must have been about when Rai had said that he smelled something,” I suggested, as I watched the large dark-skinned lad prowl softly in the foliage.

Surprise Raion-ju had both been listening and took my hint to join the conversation. “Um, yeah,” he did not look up from his searching, though, , “when the coffin was opened, I got a strong whiff of a person. Only it was like a mostly rotted person, but not dead yet… like gangrene and piss or something.” He moved crouched low to the ground and inhaling deeply, as much as looking with his slit eyes. “Anyway, I could tell where the smell was coming from and that there was person mixed in, but I couldn’t see anyone. And it was right near me. Then, when Red Rhea pulled the kid out of the box, I felt and smelled that someone brush passed, moving fast, for the ritual circle.” Rai shrugged. “I tried to catch them, but they had a head start. Probably pretty small too, to get through that crowd so easy.”

         Having successfully derailed Dark Sol’s narrative, onto Raion-ju’s short track, I pulled another switch and took over myself. I was too antsy to just listen, while Sol recounted for Tallwind, things which I had seen.

While I relayed Rai’s bursting into the clearing and the resulting general lack of action, Predatory Rai and methodical Sean each located signs of someone else’s recent passage. The persimmony gnarling pointed an elongated digit to a fresh sneaker print, in the soft earth. I was impressed with Mr. Tallwind’s track detection, although not enough to accept his private investigator claims. Finding a trail in the woods could as easily be attributed to hunting or boy scout training, decades earlier, rather than investigation skills.

The panther-lad said, “Found some fresh blood here. Plant smells are too thick to get a steady trail. But, the blood’s definitely the boy’s.”

“Hmm…” Tegan was first over to Rai and whispered something to the large fellow. The pair spent a few moments in hush speculation, before the green-eyed lass explained to the rest of us. “There’s an old Ways here. And it looks like our culprit took it.”

“Whadda ya mean ‘old’?” Gavin asked, as the rest of us congregated at the clues.

Tegan shrugged, “Like any road really. I mean look,” she pointed to a clump of rounded stones, “this one was probably even paved in cobblestone at one point. Roads don’t get maintained and nature takes over. The Briar just seems to be more aggressive about breaking down Ways.”

“So, how old is it?” Sean asked.

“Does it rrrm matter?” Freerunner grumbled at Sean.

“Whether it matters or not,” Miss Bramblerose headed off a tangent or argument, “we can’t tell the age of the Ways. Best we can do is to say that it looks like only one person has used this part of it. Even then, we can only be fairly certain it was within the last hour.”

“Which, uh, means two things, right?” I looked from the now closed red-door which we had come through, to where Tegan indicated the Ways to be. “One, our thief was familiar enough with this place to be able to get away swiftly and reliably; and two, Red Rhea was either foolish for having used this location to store the kid, or she had known of the Ways and is part of the problem.”

          “I’m not sure that follows.” Dark Sol said thoughtfully.

          “Yeah,” Tegan agreed with a sigh, “I think there are more possibilities. But the key here _is_ that we have a much more solid idea of how to track the kid.”

          “And,” Gavin rubbed his rough hands eagerly, making the sound of bricks sliding against each other, “a Ways means we’ll be moving pretty fast, to catch up, right?”

          Sean barked a sarcastic laugh. ‘Except, whoever took the kid is movin’ just as unhindered and he’s got a head start.”

          “Well, since that’s the case…” Tegan’s emerald eyes glanced off to where she had last been standing. “I thought I saw something interesting over there and I’d like to take just a minute or two, to check it out.”

As we all moved to where Tegan had been, my High Noon glamour remained centered on me, so we all got a clear look at the unusual tree to which our bloomwell had referred. The tree was big, like a thick old oak, with a trunk which diverged and twisted about two-and-a-half stories up. Where the main trunk forked it became five narrower trunks before branching as other trees. The thick and twisted portions of trunk gave the impression of a colossal hand reaching out of the earth—a hand covered in piercing spines. The long slightly-curved thorns varied from needles as long as my palm, at the branch tips, to forearm-long shafts, nearer to the trunks. There was also an abundance of golden-orange apples growing on the tree. Picking them would only require braving the thorns.

“Oooh, hey.” Tegan sounded as if she had just remembered the lyrics to a song, or a celebrity name that had been eluding her. “Yeah, I know this one. It’s a stabapple tree.” She bit her plump lower-lip in consternation. “Only, I can’t remember if its one of the ones that can _whomp_ down on you.” She mimicked a with one hand starting vertical, then slapping down onto her other fist.

“The tree’s in the Wizard of Oz just threw their apples.” Gavin added hopefully.

“Pfft.” Sean Tallwind snorted. “This is more likely to shoot them spines at us.”

“An apple would be nice, though.” Iron Wade was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I didn’t really get anything to eat, back at the court.”

I nodded, “It would be pretty cool to have one of those long thorns, too. Could come in handy as a makeshift weapon, for those of us that don’t carry swords around.”

Tegan nodded, scooped a fist-sized rock from the ground, and whipped it at the tree. When there was no reaction, the martial matron pulled a long narrow knife from one sleeve, then flicked it expertly through the air, to embed with a _thonk_ in the stabapple’s trunk. Then Miss Bramblerose shrugged, said, “Good enough for starters, I guess.”, then bounded over to the unusual apple-tree, and retrieved her blade.

Since the tree failed to react, the rest of us joined the shapely lass. However, I was the only other person brave enough to accompany Tegan up into the thorn covered branches. I heard “Runner grumble something like, “Rerr too pretty, forrr good sense.” Although, I ignored it as a small fuzzy fae’s grousing over sour vine-fruit. Of course, once lithe Bramblerose and I were up, all six of our companions were perfectly willing to request apples and thorns. Iron Wade, at least, had the decency to offer me some fencing lessons, if I got him a large thorn and an apple. The _thwang-thrum_ of our deal settle into me, as I carefully crawled to an apple.

I had donned my thick leather workman’s gloves, for added protection. However, the stabapple thorns were only pointy, not sharp-edged, so maneuvering through them was not as harrowing as it might have been. The apples seemed ripe and were easily picked. The thorns took more of a knack, which Tegan was first to master; grabbing their base and finding the right direction for a rocking motion, then they popped free fairly cleanly. So, within less than ten minutes, everyone had a thorn and two or three apples.

The stabapple thorns we had selected were of the longest available—a-foot-and-a-half to two-feet long. They were a little wider at the base, so I was able to slide mine into a belt-loop and it hung fairly stable. I was iffy about what weird effects the apples may cause, so I kept my three in my jacket pockets. I considered placing my harvest into my backpack, however that would have drawn attention to my gear on Gavin’s back, and I did not want to risk him deciding that it was time for me to shoulder my own burden.

Iron Wade was either braver than I, or not aware that the apples may have magical properties, for he wolfed his down right away. Halfway through the first piece of fruit, the leathery fellow reported, “Tastes kind of odd… like caraway and roasted onions, more than an apple.” A shrug. “Not bad, though.”

I wondered what, if anything, that meant about the local soil. Then, I wondered if I might have more nigglers, distracting me from the more important issue of whether Wade was adversely affected or not. The normally invisible angelfish-like thought eaters were certainly likely, on the other hand the Briar may simply be agitating my psyche. Whatever the case, I started to get the sense that my whose party was having more trouble than usual staying focused.

As Iron Wade ate his second apple, with his right hand, he inspected the Stabapple thorn, in his left. “Nice balance. Affix a handle and it should be a decent stabbing weapon. Too curved for throwing, though.” He whacked the thorn on the toe of his boot a couple of times. “Seems pretty close to steel’s tensile strength, as well.”

“So,” I imaged my swashbuckling exploits, after receiving fencing lessons, “we’ll be able to hone, or whittle the edges sharp?”

The Man of Steal swallowed and picked his teeth with his tongue, before answering, “I doubt it. That’ll probably mess with the thorn’s structural integrity.” He tossed his second apple core to the stabapple tree’s base, beside his first. “But that doesn’t matter much. Fencings mostly about deflecting and jabs.”

“Not that these’re long enough for foils, or epees, or whatever.” Sean grumped.

Iron Wade shrugged one shoulder, ‘They won’t work for proper fencing, but most of the techniques are translatable.”

          Which was good enough. Especially, as most of us had grown fidgety, while Wade had his snack. So, we moved on with our actual mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	9. Chapter 9

** IX **

As our octet left the area of the red wooden door, my wonderful summer sunshine faded away. I chewed my lip, sorely tempted to use the wyrd necessary and recast High Noon. However, even if I could rely on the magic to last, I had to make sure that I kept enough power to glamour myself stronger or luckier, in case of an emergency. Or, preferably not deplete any, until I had access to a replenishing source.

Thus, our party was left with my moonlight glow. While still far more reassuring and useful than no light, my illumination seemed somewhat ominous after the sunny glamour. Barely thirty-feet across and lacking the color revealing properties of full-spectrum light, my faery aura let the Briar close-in and become a place of deepest shadows and unsettling shapes of dark monochrome.

It was also time to renew my Summer’s embrace, according to my goose-bumps. I shook my head at the absurdity of glamours, though, most of them had one secret which amounted to a trick. Specifically a way to trick the Gyr into letting the glamour function, without applying wyrd. However, like everything fae-related, there was no rhyme or reason, what I called Summer’s Embrace and High Noon had both been gifts from Summerfire, casting them tapped into my choleric beliefs and reinforced that entity-concept, to some small extent. Yet, the former glamour could be tricked into working over and over with any spark, while the latter was dependent on the time of night—specifically the ludicrously short window of the ten minutes which rapped around midnight.

Adding to my resigned disappointment in faery magic was that I would have liked to add to my party’s moral in some way. Without High Noon’s light, I could have extend Summer’s Embrace into my luminous aura. Except that too require precious wyrd and had not related trick.

As I walked, pondering the pros and cons of glamour rules, another part of my brain was taking in what sights there were. Tegan’s earlier observation, of the Ways having been more well kept, cropped up with consistency. Patches of still mortared together paving stones came and went, beneath our careful steps. In a few places, the cobbles were intact for several yards, with only a few potholes. Most of the time, the opposite was true, small islands of worked stone in an otherwise overgrown lane.

Time moved along, presumably at a pace beside our troupe and equally uncommunicative. Thanks to my Keeper’s manipulations and my harried escape through the Lands Between, I had lost much of my ability to estimate the passage of time. Being back in the Thorns only exacerbated the effect, plus temporality was as mutable there as any physical object.

Even so, our group followed Tegan and Raion-ju for what must have been somewhere less than an hour, yet more than half of that, when a gentle clattering sound came to us. Over the rustle of leaves and distant night-birds, we heard the noise growing slowly closer. The clattering and clanking were occasionally mingled with an odd squeak. The sounds tickled my mind with an almost familiarity, as if something from a childhood nightmare. All eight of us walked with a bit more stiff tension and readied what weapons we each had.

Eventually, a tea service rattled into view, a complete set of fine china with silvery flatware, normal size, and moving along on little animated porcelain feet. It was as if supporting cast from a Disney movie had become live action and made a run for the woods. I pointed and laughed at the dishes, as the tension broke through our gang. As a group, we stepped to the sides of the Ways and let the tea service pass, back the way we had come, gently rattling all the way..

As I regained my composure, Lewis Carroll’s work bubbled into my head, while I also made mental notes to tell Prof. Peter Dionysus about the charming little creature-objects. I hoped that Sheave & Leave’s “resident” crypto-biologist was not already familiar with the porcelain animals (porcelainimals?). By then my troupe had resumed its trek, even the sound of the porcelainimal tea-heard had died away, so I could only glance regretfully over mu shoulder. I probably should have tried to grab up a cup and sip the tea.

That was also about the time that Iron Wade the Man of Steal suggested, “Hey, maybe we should make some torches?”

Even though the worst of everyone’s tension had been released, my gang generally remained on guard. Even so, Wade’s comment prompted me to make an involuntary sniff of indignation.

“No,” the haggard fencer looked even more stricken, as it dawned on him that I might take his raspy comment personally, “Tommy, it’s not about you. Your light is great, but you should stay in the center of the party to give maximum coverage.” He scratched his left elbow with the apposing hand. “ I thought it would be good to have an extra light source in front and rear, just to see things coming, before they’re right in our midst.”

“And having fire handy is usually useful.” Sean Tallwind asserted, sticking up for his fellow gnarling as usual.

Gavin Granitbane harrumphed, a general disapproval of any association involving Mr. Tallwind and fire, yet the fireman did not make any actual objections.

“I don’t really care.” I assured the group. “But I don’t think any of us have any tar or pitch or whatever torches are made of, to dip branches in.”

I should have known better than to make that bluff. In about as much time as it had taken to pick stabapples, Misters Steal and Tallwind along with survival-trained Miss Bramblerose had made a half dozen torches. Tegan and Sean hashed out a plan in less than a minute. Then the curvaceous guide used her glamour of finding to lead the trio a dozen or so paces off the Ways, to suitable fallen branches, a particularly sappy pine tree, and an armload of dead leaves, as well as their way back to the rest of us. I was impressed with the effectiveness of the impromptu flaming sticks, in spite of myself.

 

We plodded on, through immeasurable time, along the partially-cobbled Ways. Our trackers would point out little verifications, indicating that we remained on the right trail; usually Rai pointing to a drop of Joey’s blood. The Briar sounds continued with deceptive normalcy, small creature sounds fell silent as we neared and resumed well after we passed. However, the supernatural aromas swirled by in blends of cinnamon, over ripe vegetables, and a buttery sugar scent that I associated with popcorn-balls. I took some pride in that even though the palpable darkness continued to press against my faery light, it virtually overwhelmed the meager efforts of the ad hoc torches.

          A thing looking remarkably akin to a billboard came into view, threw the dense foliage. Our path took us towards and then passed the structure. What had started seeming just flat, white, and easily billboard-sized, eventually looked to be sticking out of the ground at an angle—one corner buried, the other pointed skywards. Then we were passing close enough for the image to resolve threw the branches; a black, numeral-three and a spade symbol, each nearly as tall as Tegan and crooked as sideways as the rest of the colossal playing card.

“Well,” sarcastically Sean Tallwind jested, “I for one, sure don’t want to meet the gambler that plays with a deck that size”.

Murmurs of agreement made their way around our party.

Not long after that, our collective attention was drawn to chopping sounds. Then, the Ways which we walked carried us along the side of a still and murky lake, the sky could be seen for the first time since we had departed the Hawk Wood Court, the moon was playing hide and seek amidst large rolling clouds. The chopping came from up high in the trees, within sight of the Ways, on the far side of charcoal grey water. Shafts of moonlight revealed a handful of the hatchet-headed cormorant-like birds, like the larger flock I remembered having avoided on my group’s journey to free our now haven-mate Amaryllis.

These birds clung in pairs, around knobbly looking pods, high up the distant trees. Assuming the axe-beaks were the same size as those that we had seen before, the pods which they were attacking were roughly a foot and a half wide and over two feet long, looking for all the world like magnified barnacles. My party’s pace slowed, as we watched a pair of the avian lumberjacks set about using their sharpened beaks to hack into one of the pods. The sound echoed over the still lake water. The pod cracked open and I could just barely make out what seemed to be a mostly formed goose or swan, like it had been in an egg and would have come forth full grown, had the hatchet-heads not arrived.

“Ooh,” wide smiling Sol clapped softly as she watched the axe-birds set about consuming the half formed rewards of their labor. “Barnacle Geese! Medieval sailors used to think that a certain type of goose came from giant barnacles… Looks like they where right.”

“Or rrg,” hirsute Freerunner squinted his otter-y eyes at the gruesome feast skeptically, “their rrmph beliefs made urm these things arr come true.” He pointed to the birds.

Personally, I would not look directly at the creatures, imagining that the sight could not possibly be a good omen. I also found myself contemplating the probability that the axe-beaks presence indicated that we were still near Athens. Since my group had a magic door-portal back at our tree-house haven which opened to Red Rock Canyon in Nevada, I assumed Red Rhea would have had Joey stashed as far away as possible. Plus, the blade-headed birds looked tropical, so my gang may have gone through to where the avians were more common. On the other hand, they could be part of the larger Athens flock. Freerunner tapped me on the shoulder and urged me to keep moving, as the others had done, while I had once more let my musing get the better of me.

 

Objectively, more time must have passed, or else we could not have moved as mush as we did. Our tracker-scouts found fewer and fewer indications of Joey’s blood or obvious signs of our quarry. It felt as if all of us were growing concerned that the thief had left the path and we may have missed the sign. Then, Tegan discovered another shoe print, just off of the Ways. After everyone inspected the clue, it was agreed that the print was not clear and may well belong to some other woodland traveler.

Raion-ju pointed one large claw into the trees and murmured in his deep throaty voice, “There’s more of those big cards over there, but like piled together.”

“You think our guy could be hiding there?” Iron Wade asked, tightening his scar crossed grip on his saber’s hilt.

Rai just shrugged his mighty shoulders.

I frowned once more at my poor recall of the Carroll books. Were the cards friendly, dangerous, or indifferent? Did it matter, if the only cards that we encountered were building materials? I wanted to say that the literary cards had been menial labor, or guards. Then again, that may have only been in the Disney version. On the other hand, was the cartoon any less valid?...

I stayed with the troupe, while I pondered, and as we cautiously approached the massive playing cards. The big rectangles were arranged, on their ends and edges, as a tower within a small clearing. Red and blue backs, from at least three designs, were easily identified amongst the playthings turned architecture. There was no way that the five or six story structure would have stood in the mundane world, even had the cards been normal sized, yet the Briar applied much looser guidelines on physics.

As we entered the clearing, a male voice called out, from the upper levels of the tower. “Ho and hail, travelers!”

“An’ hail to thee!” I cupped my smooth hands to my mouth, while leaning back to call up.

“What are you about?” the unseen speaker called down.

Iron Wade took over, without forewarning, “We seek someone who may have passed this way with a child. Have you seen them?”

“I have seen people with children!” the tower dweller replied, amused.

Sean Tallwind immediately seemed to grasp the nature of the stranger’s conversational style, shook his head in disgust, then tried to compensate for the strangers literalness. “Have you seen such a person and child, pass this way, recently? Very, recently.”

“Ah,” the man said, somewhat grudgingly, “no, not recently.”

“Do you know of anyone in the area that might have taken a child?” Our wrinkled gnarling asked.

“Well…” the man paused as if calculating, “yes, I know of someone who does that.”

“Will you tell us?!” Wade dry voice barked out, a little frustrated.

”What will I have in exchange?” The unseen stranger asked.

I had been half expecting some sort of bartering to start up. So, I stepped forward. “If you tell me what we should call you, then I shall compose a poem around that for the answer my friend asked for.”

I felt the gentle _twinge-twang_ of a simple deal struck pass through the Gyr between me and the unknown man. At the same moment, there had been a sound of motion, as the man leapt and tumbled down the card tower, landing a few feet before me with a theatrical flourish. Then, announced, in a sing song tone, “I am the Man with the axe, the Queen with the Flower, the Suicide King, the knave in the Bower.”

The fellow’s red hair was quaffed in a shoulder length style and he had one brown and one blue eye. For clothing the stranger wore period garb suited to a medieval nobleman—In reds, whites, and blacks. No axe was visible, though there was a clear rose motif in embroidery on his doublet.

Flustered by the self-proclaimed royal court’s acrobatic entrance, as well as the fact that I was now expected to make a quick poem from a quick poem. I took a moment, then spoke out my improvisation. I knew even as I spoke the lines that my poem was not very good—my first drafts rarely were. Sadly, I could also tell from Man-Queen-King-Knave’s expression that he also knew how bad my ode was—as did Dark Sol. The one small boon was that the rest of my companions seemed as oblivious to my lack of skill as most things they encountered.

“I never said it would be a _good_ poem.” I looked aside, as I felt the flush of embarrassment rising from my neck to my cheeks.

The anachronistically dressed lad tilted his head to me, conceding my point good naturedly. I felt the _gnawt-egniwt_ of my half of our bargain spool away into the potential from which it had come. The sensation felt a bit more raggedy than usual, I assumed due to my almost failing to fulfill my promise.

“I do know of a man that resides nearby and he is fond of abducting mortal children,” Axe-Flower-Suicide-Bower strutted about the small clearing in front of his tower. His bravado and expansive manner compensating for his roughly five-foot-four stature.

Then, my comrades did that thing they do whenever we meet someone new as a group—especially if we are in unfamiliar circumstances. Technically, they just start asking questions, only they do not allow for one person to ask a question, receive an answer, then another question is asked that relates. Instead one of my allies will make an inquiry and get an answer. Then someone else asks another question unrelated to the first question or answer, and they probably get their answer—even though the person being questioned is a little taken aback from the radical topic shift. Then that repeats for a while with new questioners jumping in with whatever strikes their fancy. To make the person trying to juggle and reply to all these separate conversations even more confused, crazy, or irate, one of the later questions is inevitably the same as one of the earlier ones—only asked by a different person. That is when one of us who had paid attention to the answer the first time around tries to repeat the answer we had been given, which starts up side conversations that result in missing the newest questions and answers; this resulting in one of the sidetracked conversers to ask a question of the stranger that had already been asked. Depending on the tolerance for foolishness level of the person being ganged up on, this can go on for a long time with very little actual information being shared.

Thus, I can only do my best to sum up the gist of what was learned whenever one of these verbal blitzkriegs arrives in my narrative. I could never untangle precisely whom said what, nor in what order. Most regretfully, interesting details are sure to have been lost to my poor recall.

In this case, as our question-barrage fell on the playful card-ish gent, he continued to strut and pose, while making best efforts to answer. As I did not participate in the chaotic questioning, I had the leisure to recognize—specifically when the foppish fellow stood with his back to us and spoke, in profile, over his shoulder—that he was imitating face card portraits. Then I clued into that the redheaded chap was essentially “quoting” memorable images, as a needy actor might do with famous line—and it worked, for me.

Having recently studied up on various card games, for my trips into Las Vegas, I also inadvertently wound up reading about the history of cards in general. I remembered thinking how interesting it was that playing cards have had different suits, comprised of different sizes, and alternative names for each card over the centuries. As the bumper-car-style conversation continued about me, I pieced together at what the eccentric fellow had so blatantly been hinting: he was Red King. Suicide King was of hearts and the Man with the Axe of diamonds. My unreliable memory meant that I had to guess that the other designations which Red King had spouted were additional archaic synonyms. However, by the time I had completed that tiny puzzle, my allies had garbled the discussion so thoroughly that I chose not to introduce my new information, for fear of another wholly unnecessary tangent. Besides, I imagined that keeping the name to myself, may come in handy as a sort of ace in my pocket at some later date.

All that said, my collective fared better with the Red King, than usual, in that he neither grew frustrated or upset. We even learned that the person that took kids, of whom Red King had spoke, was a True Fae known to wear a long, black coat and hat and had no eyes, yet could see all the same. My stomach filled with a block of frozen battery acid, upon hearing those details. From their pale and sour expressions, my cohorts felt similarly.

Our dread was somewhat eased when someone had prompted for more clarity, “And he smells like sickness and rot?”

Red King shook his head, “Not that I am aware of… That sounds more like Johnny, one of the Folk’s puppets.”

News which boiled my blood on top of the acid-cicle in my gut. Puppets, in the world of spirit-touched that have fled their captivity, were effectively traitors or double agents. A puppet starts like any other changeling, normal mortal enslaved by a Bright One, however they do not escape. Instead, the insidious Keeper tasks their fae thrall with returning to the mortal world and perform specific actions—usually, collecting new mortals and previously escaped spirit-touched. As much as I shared the common tendency to despise the duplicitous puppets, I did also pity them to some extent, for their proximity to the mundane world and its freedoms, while still being shackled to a Keeper’s will.

Reeling my floundering mind back to the shores of my group’s immediate mission, I sighed with a modicum of relief. Assuming that this Johnny-puppet really did have young Joey, my gang could probably wrest the kid away. On the other hand, if Joey had been passed on to the eyeless, black attired, Bright One, then we were going to die, be re-enslaved, or need to flee—probably off the continent.

In addition to those relevant details and peppered throughout, Red King attempted to get any or all of us to join him in a game of cards. The dandy fellow kept offering unusual stakes, such as hob’s delight.

That happened to be one that Miss Bramblerose recognized, as she explained to those of us who could be bothered to listen “Lots of stuff grows in the Briar,” her bell-clear voice distant and emerald eyes unfocused, as if she were recalling a dream, “like the stabapples. Only some of it has magical effects, like making you turn blue, or sleeping a hundred years. Some Briar-fruit is supposedly usually, like healing wounds or providing wyrd.” She nodded to re King. “Hob’s Delight are the wyrd producing kind.”

That hooked my attention. By then we had heard about Johnny, so my allies were eager to leave, before the puppet could hand Joey off. I could not forgo the chance to replenish my woefully low wyrd reserves, though. In my wyrd-weak state, just the mention of the hob’s delight made my limbs tingle and my eyesight brought Red King into sharper focus.

“Okay, real quick,” I pulled off my gloves, as I addressed Red King, “if you have some of that wyrd-full fruit, I’ll play you some poker for it.”

The theatrical lad’s mismatched eyes twinkled with delight. “I have the ante to be sure.” He rummaged in his pockets and produced two pair-like fruits and a pack of cards. “But what stakes do you offer me?”

Patting my pockets, IO found and produced my wallet, from which I pulled out a pair of tickets. “Two tickets to the Joust in the Excalibur Casino, in Las Vegas?”

I was not very hopeful that the Briar resident would be aware of, or interested in, the mundane attraction. I sluggishly recalled that Gavin still had a bunch of my stuff. I was about to call the big rock chap over, when my opponent danced a little jig. Red King then sat on the ground and started shuffling.

Sitting across from the redhead, he and I each placed one of our offered items between us and played some five card stud. As always, when I played cards for stakes, I attempted to charm and dazzle my opponent with a contiguous stream of banter. Jack-Queen-King-Knave was unfazed by my efforts.

Or course, I had only been serious gambling for a week or so and I usually employed glamours to aid me. Since the whole point of this deviation from the mission was to shore up my wyrd reserves, it would have been ridiculous to expend what little I had, in the hopes of winning back more. And, sadly, my Fairest Tongue and fortune manipulating glamours were some of the few without tricks for activation. I frowned even harder as it occurred to me that Red King was probably using the same or very similar faery magic against me.

Meanwhile, my companions failed to be impressed with, or seemingly even aware of, my motor-mouth gambler persona. Instead, my associates milled about, fidgeting and grumbling. Needles to say I did not have any attention to spare for what was said, outside of my poker match. Although, I believed that the Man of Steal, Tallwind, or both made comments about leaving me behind, while the others insisted our gang remain together. Not that the sentiment reduced the widespread use of let’s-get-a-move-on gestures and comments. Obviously, the incessant fussing only contributed to my pour showing and prolonged, rather than quickened, the process.

After losing one ticket to the King’s Tournament, I to compensate by adding my buy-2-get-1-free room voucher for New York, New York. In spite of my handicaps, I won almost as much as I lost, which meant it took six or seven hands before we were done. In the end, I lost everything that I had brought to the “table”, yet had won the two pear-shaped hob’s delights. For speed and convenience, I would have readily just traded the three vouchers for the fruit, except that simply was not how the red royal had wanted deal.

I was fully expecting to have to eat and walk, in order to appease my cohorts. However, as I was standing up, Gavin Granitbane plopped down in my place and started bargaining for another challenge. So, I was able to consume my winnings, while my allies groaned in frustration. Sean Tallwind actually pulled at his lanky hair, in a particularly am sung manner.

Producing a couple of breakfast bars, from his jacket, Gavin spun some cheesy advertising-grade rhetoric about their value as “a full meal”. Red King clearly did not buy the hype, yet wanted to play some more. The card-lad agreed to Gavin’s terms of more information about Johnny, should he lose.

The duo was much more rapid-fire than my experience. Looming Mr. Granitbane’s style was aggressive, borderline threatening, and it worked. Red King was successfully unnerved to the point of loosing.

I enjoyed my snack, while I analyzed the card game. Hob’s delight were hefty for their size and the opalescent yellow skin was thicker than a pear or apple. The flesh was soft and juicy, smelling like the moment before lightning strikes, while tasting of childhood birthday cakes and ballpark hotdogs. I finished both fruits swiftly, cores and all, and would have eagerly eaten a dozen more. That said, I sense my wyrd hunger-yearning subsided, as much as eating a ‘burger would have taken the edge off of the physical hunger of which I was now more aware.

In my culinary reverie I missed the end of the match, however Gavin must have won, as Red King was explaining, “Johnny’s a blighter and a darkling, as most blighters are.” Gavin’s blank marble-eyed stare prompted the dapper fellow to add. “They leave a trace of decay and rot wherever they go. Johnny happens to… specialize in vegetation.” He turned dual-hoed eye sympathetically towards Tegan. “Any plant that he touches will show signs of sickness and decay.”

No more stalling could be countenanced and our party hurried back to the Ways. Rai, ‘Runner, and Tegan each claiming to have been seeing sickly plants, for the whole journey, and just not making the connection. Most of us did linger long enough to say polite farewells to Red King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	10. Chapter 10

** X **

Back on the Ways again; I was getting tired, in addition to hungry. The subtleties of the Briar continued to changing, apparently in accordance with our passage—a copse of fir trees would pass on our right, the gnarled trunks of one area would eventually gave way to pillar straight neighbors, elsewhere wide leafed ferns were replaced by berry bushes, and so on. Meanwhile, my stomach felt tight in a completely natural manner and my legs were getting sore. Even in my Doc Martins, the uneven ground was a chore.

          The sounds, smells, and temperature all fluctuated in similar manners as the flora. Some sounds grew louder or closer for a time, chirping might give way to squawking, scuttling, or slithering. Aromas of straw, warm wax, corn, wet leaves, rotting flesh, and many more came and went, usually faint in the air. The chill varied from a light-jacket-would-be-nice to frost forming in the dew. At least, I only knew of the temperature shifts from the bitter comments of my traveling companions, as they too were growing more weary.

Striking and dowsing another match, I was surprised to see my disposal box almost half full. I chose not to count the spent sticks, yet I knew that I had started with only a few in the spare container. Even if I numbered the matches, the unpredictable Gyr meant that glamours did not maintain consistent durations. So, another avenue of time keeping eluded me. Beside how long my team had been hunting Johnny did not really matter. I even only vaguely worried about running out of matches. However, my growing pile of spent sticks to make me wonder how far off dawn might be.

Theoretically, one of my outdoorsy cohorts may have been able to make some determination of how near to, or far past, midnight we were. On the other hand, in this case I choose silent ignorance over asking for disappointment. Either very little time had past and our task would seem to stretch impossibly long before us, or too much time had past and we had little hope of returning to the ritual circle before sunrise. As long as I received no confirmation to the contrary, I could imagine that we had plenty of time and were rapidly gaining on our quarry.

          My mood was not aided by the fact that the crappy torches, which my companions had made to “supplement” my enchanting faery illumination, proved of legitimate value. The flames offered enough color-spectrum light to make spotting discolored and rotting foliage. In addition to Raion-ju and Tegan Bramblerose, Sean Tallwind, Iron Wade the Man of Steal, and Freerunner all spotted unhealthy patches on plants. The discoloring, or bits of rot, was always right where a sleeve or leg might have brushed the leaf or branch.

“it’s probably another reason,” Tegan mused at one point, “that he’s sticking to the relatively cleared Ways. If this guy just barreled through the underbrush, anyone would be able to follow the blighted plants.”

          Rai also continued to point out the occasional drop of Joey’s blood, thus corroborating we were following the correct blighter. Sadly, movies and TV let me down again, as I was repeatedly told that there was no way to tell if we were gaining on Johnny. We were maybe less than thirty-minutes away, definitely less than an hour, and our limited “forensics” could not be made more precise.

          In the meantime, those of us not tracking watched for potential dangers… or were sightseeing, depending on how one considers such things. Either way, I felt like I was, at least doing something.

All eight of us stayed within reach of at least two of the others, making certain to watch the person in front of us. Stepping off of the Ways or losing sight of a fellow traveler was a fairly sire method for getting lost in the shifting Briar. Short of tying ourselves together, of course. Even if Sean had enough rope or twine (which I was confident that he did), none of us wanted the extra mobility hassles.

I say that their were eight of us, however technically we had more eyes, ears, and nosed than that working for us. I spent so much time wrangling my wild and exocentric thoughts, I had generally forgotten about ‘Runner’s nearly silent friends. Either my svelt allies glamour was far more successful than mine, or ‘Runner had to have been renewing his control of the half-dozen ferrets, as I had my Summer’s Embrace. My point being that I should not have flinched when be-whiskered Freerunner garbled, “Urm one of rrah the ferrets rmph spotted arrh somethin’ shiny.” He pointed a hairy finger to the side of the path. ”’S in rrerr the trees urrm overrr thererer.”

As I realigned my memory to include the fuzzy weasel-tubes, the rest of my party hesitated with the own mental adjustments. None of us liked the idea of delaying our mission, yet again, possibly even loosing recently gained ground. On the other hand, ‘Runner said “shiny” and only magpies are more distractible then the group with which I walked. Plus, the shimmering glint could be spied from the Ways.

The inevitable closer investigation revealed that a silver hand-mirror was stuck in the middle of a cluster of purple buds, thirteen or fourteen feet up the trunk of a tree. The buds were about the size of my fist with viny roots which seemed to grow directly into the tree trunk’s dark-brown bark. The buds encircle the shiny mirror, partially over the object in places.

I was transfixed with the mystery of the situation. How had the mirror gotten there? Did it fall or get thrown for the purple buds to catch? Or did the buds sprout over time, because the mirror had been positioned there? Or had the mirror just been part of the plant, like a visual version of a flytrap’s sweet smell? Whatever, the case, none of my company particularly liked the looks of the situation; those pods could be poison or lash out as tentacles or who knew what.

The whole cluster was also just out of reach of our tallest party members. Rai, Wade, or Gavin could have probably jumped up, far enough, to snatch the mirror-shaped object, yet not without jostling the purple plants. I could not wholly blame none of them for wanting to risk the attempt.

Our most literarily trained associate, Dark Sol, stood below the silvery object and called up to it. “Mirror, mirror, in the tree, show us the boy we wish to see!”

I wondered if the pale lass was simply being cute, or if she had reason to believe her words would do something. Either way I pursed my lips with jealousy over having not thought of it first. I half hoped that I could blame my lapse on the nefarious thought-consuming niggler fish.

Regardless, Sol’s ploy worked, sort of. The mirror radiated a bluish light, for a few moments. Unfortunately, the object was angled in such a way that none of us could see the mirror’s surface.

Mr. Granitbane, muscleman extraordinaire, offered to Sol, “Hey, you could stand on my shoulders. Then you should be able to see what it shows.”

Dark Sol’s endless black-eyes widen and she took several steps away from the tree and Gavin. “No way Jose. I wasn’t born yesterday.” She pointed an ivory finger, at the mirror. “That’s a trap, if ever I saw one.”

“Here, here.” Approved Sean Tallwind flatly.

My responding sigh sounded exasperated and it was in part. I wanted to get back to our mission so we could get home to bed. So, if we were going to take the thing, then we should just do it and not waste time debating or discussing merits. Even the how to do it only had limited obvious options, not in need of in-depth exploration. On the other hand, my sigh was mostly one of relief, that everyone else seemed to be backing away from what was probably a priceless treasure.

Even if all the object did was glow, it did so magically, so that was cool enough. However, since the mirror responded to Sol’s rhyme, it was likely a useful tool, at minimum. Plus, anything magical must be worth trade to someone, even if it turned out less useful for our current needs. Also, if I were being wholly honest, I wanted to show the eerie darkling that I was not afraid where she was and to undercut the long-fingered gnarling’s perpetual negativity.

Sighing again, for a bit more theatrical effect, I patted pebbly-orange Gavin on his arm, “No worries big guy, I’ll do it. Give me a leg up.”

Much, much later hindsight’s so-called benefits showed me a few more factors which had probably also contributed to my brash actions. Certainly it had been at least six, if not eight hours since I had last ate and that sort of thing always impaired judgment. Plus, I had not slept many hours and that had to have been nearly twenty-hours gone by. Embarrassingly, I was also trying to assuage my residual guilt for having delayed our quest, by gamble for the hob’s delight. Worst of all, as much as I worried about the thought consuming nigglers, those worries tended to get gobbled up by them, leaving completely forgetful of the likely presence and related consequences.

Therefore, without those review realizations, I was standing on the steady squared shoulders of Gavin Granitbane, in mere moments. The reddish-orange rock fellow held my slender ankles in his blocky hands, so I was more stable than had I been walking on the ground. The mirror wound up still a bit above my head, though well within reach. My new vantage also allowed me to verify that the mirror had been in place long enough for the plants to have grown over it a little, leaving no way to remove the looking-glass, without jostling the lavender buds. Throwing rocks would likely break the glass of the mirror. I considered using my stabapple spike to poke a bud, from arm’s length, to see what happened. Then resolved that such experimentation was just more of the kind of dithering that I wanted to avoid. Besides, odds were if something came out of the closed purple flowers, than the thorn I held still would not be long enough to protect me,.

“I’ve got a good look.” I said, mostly to Gavin, as made sure my thick leather gloves were snuggly in place. “If I’m smooth and quick enough, it’ll be fine. So, just hold steady.”

Covering my nose and mouth with my left hand, I turned my head as much away as I could. Studying my target askance, I positioned my hand, closed my eyes, snatched forward, and came away with the hand-mirror. Unfortunately, I did brush a flower-pod and it exploded in a cloud of glittering pinkish thread-like seeds. The cloud lingered in the air and swiftly coated Gavin and myself. The analytical part of my brain convinced me that it was alright, since the cloud was s big that it would have engulfed us even had I used my stabapple-thorn.

Needless to say my other cowardly allies had hidden well away and did not get touched by any of the seemingly innocuous, though pretty seeds. In spite of that fact, the rest of them still started acting snide and smug about Gavin and me effectively being covered in pink glitter, even before I had reach the ground. So, I chose the high-road and ignored them, instead sitting down to work with my new mirror. Gavin, on the other hand, became more and more obsessed with countering our comrades’ teasing by trying to get them to believe in some imagined purple one- eyed cats.

Blocking out the irrelevant distractions, as best as I could, I held up the silver-filigreed hand-mirror and spoke a variation on Sol’s earlier rhyme, “Mirror, mirror, in my hand, show me the boy we seek in this land.”

My reflection vanished in a sheet of pale-bluish light, to be replaced by the close-up image of a young blond boy. The face of the lad, who I presumed to be Joey, was contorted in terror and crying profusely.

I remained sitting with my legs folded Indian-style, holding my new enchanted beauty aid with both hands. “Mirror, Mirror, made of glass, show me the way the boy did pass.”

My hopes for a map, or overhead view of the Wilder Woods, were dashed, as the luminous image-wipe cleared. All that I saw was the red door which Red Rhea had employed and through which our posse had also passed.

I tried more simple rhymes, attempting to get a map or depiction of the specific steps that Johnny had taken. I only grew ore frustrated as each poem resulted in more useless images, which hampered my ability to compose descent rhymes, which produced worse results, and so on. At one point, the mirror showed me the back of my own head, for example, apparently because I had not been clear enough about which blond boy was referenced in that poem.

Meanwhile, in spite of my best efforts, I was still being distracted by my colleagues’ shenanigans. Especially, Gavin Granitbane's increasingly animated insistence that the that the cycloptic-cats were not only present, but also ballroom dancing, smoking pipes, cavorting like acrobats, and any number of other foolish things. All the while, our “concerned” allies simply laughed and made irritated demands that Gavin and I pulled ourselves together.

Tired of the ruckus, I pocketed my mirror and assessed the situation. I saw right away that the real problem was that Gavin had a school, or cloud, or whatever of brightly colored nigglers floating around his brick-head. As pleased as I was to have had my concerns validated, the angelfish-like critters were clearly agitating my earthen ally and in turn causing him to upset the others. So, I whipped out my stabapple-thorn and started stabbing at the apparently selectively-invisible nigglers.

I thoroughly missed my prey, in the few moments I was permitted to attack. For some reason Gavin barked at me, to stop jabbing a pointy stick near his knobbly-orange noggin. So, I pursed my lips at the ungrateful treatment. I intended to holster my stabapple-thorn and resume looking-glass contemplations. My pouting was more because I believed that so many nigglers were going to leave Gavin a cumbersome vegetable, absolutely not because the big guy had yelled at me. Then, I noticed that Iron Wade the Man of Steal had a bright dark-purple squid on his head. Since it was obvious that the haggard fencer was oblivious to his passenger, I warned him to hold still, as I lunged my weapon at the indigo cephalopod.

Instead of heeding my instructions, the no longer smirking gnarling ducked and flinched, as well as snapping at me to stop. Needless to say I missed again. With Wade harsh words echoing right on the back of Gavin’s, I really did just tuck my thorn away and return my attention to my magic mirror. The squid and nigglers were likely to starve to death anyway, considering the empty heads they were targeting.

The rest of our party merely continued to giggle and point at Gavin and me. Some of my allies also ran around in haphazard circles. I shook my head at their futility and my own mental block. Clearly I was the only person present thinking at all clearly, yet I could not find the right rhyme to get the mirror to show me the desired images.

As I sat there , staring at my own reflection and hoping for inspiration, lustrous Dark Sol sidled over to me. The sinewy lass had a handful of leaves and somehow convinced me to eat them. Everything around those moments became hazy or blank for me, including Sol’s words. I did know that as I chewed, the slinky darkling crept over to where Gavin was rolling around imitating his imaginary cats and convinced him to comply as well.

It only took a few swallows of the bitter and tangy leaf-juice, to cause me and Mr. Granitbane to start retching. The heaving lasted for what seemed like hours, although may have only been minutes or seconds. Hunched over on hands and knees, we spewed, our eyes and noses started to gush and eventually even our ears wept wax and whitish fluid.

          I seriously considered ignoring the voice in my head that said in was wrong to hit women. I wanted very much to strike Sol, hard in her unnaturally white and currently lithe stomach. I would have done it too, if I had not been too sore and weak to get off my hands and knees. In truth, I could barely stop myself from collapsing into the gross puddle which I had just made.

I was about to pass-out, from dehydration, when angelic Tegan Bramblerose knelt beside me, patted my shoulder, and kissed the back of my head. The alabaster-skinned bloomwell’s touch was firm and soothing, her wildflower aroma helping to mask some of the bile before me. The kiss felt as if sunshine and marshmallow-Peeps were melting into my scalp and flooding my frame with s relaxation and comfort. Then, I was fine. Better than fine, I was no longer sore, tired, weak, or hungry.

I pushed up and away from the mess which I had made, as quickly as I could. Gavin joined me, having received the same care. Best of all, the rocky guy and I were no longer hallucinating.

“My Breath of Vitality glamour,” explained Tegan, sparkling green eyes sympathetic and voice stern, like my grade school nurse, “won’t work against toxins or drugs. So, Sol had to clean out your systems first.” She studied Gavin and me, “Are you feeling better? No more purple cats or squids around?”

My fellow psychedeliac and I verified our improved states of mind and body. Even my anger at Dark Sol had dissipated with the sweet auburn-haired lady’s restorative. However, I was going to make sure to be more cautious when accepting ingestibles from the far too clever darkling. The goth lady seemed just a little too pleased with herself when she saw me chewing away on those vile leaves.

“Well, that sucked.” Gavin offer to the group.

Raion-ju had barely said more than two words together since just after we had passed through Red Rhea’s magic portal, we had come to accept this as normal communication for the big felinoid engineer. So, the large cat-man startled us when he replied, as well, “Yeah, I bet those flowers are lavender-dreams. I heard about them somewhere, but I have never seen any. So, I didn’t figure it out until the glittery, spore cloud, and you two started hallucinating.” He nodded his wide head to Gavin and me. “The lavender-dream is a powerful hallucinogen. In fact you two are fairly lucky to have been effected as mildly as you were.” He shrugged. “Of course, untreated it would have just gotten worse and worse.”

That is when, as if on cue, we heard the far off baying of hounds.

‘Oh, rrrr yeah,” Freerunner rumbles as we all looked towards the sounds in the distance, “I urm heard them rrg earlier, rre when the,” he jabbed his thumb at me and Gavin, “wererrr gadding about… They rrurr sound closerrrn now, though.”

So, as my party moved with determined alacrity back to the Ways, for even speedier travel, I found myself with a couple of new things. The Silver hand-mirror tucked neatly into my jacket’s pocket. Unfortunately the other thing was a new suspicious dread of the large felinoid fellow. For I found it hard to accept that he could not have voiced his own suspicions about the lavender dreams, prior to my ill conceived action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	11. Chapter 11

** XI **

Back on what had started to feel like “our _”_ Ways, the eight of us plodded on, following the blighted patches. Our quarry had stayed on the semi-cobbled path, which thankfully kept our travel rate high. The frightful howling and baying sounded at irregular intervals, sometimes closer and sometimes farther. No other forest sounds arose anymore, making our party’s every footfall and whisper seem like a clarion in the silences.

All of us made much more effort to visually track each other. No one suggested abandoning our quest to say the young boy, though. At least, knowing about tracking the sick plants kept our pace quick enough that our nervousness was translated into hiking, rather than thinking about other methods of self preservation. Except for pour Freerunner, who took to carrying all of his ferret minions, like and armful of wriggling fur scarves, and gibbering at them, in what may have been their language, though I doubted it.

“So,” Iron Wade the Man of Steal’s dry voiced rasped, his saber ready, and staring into the trees, after a close sounding baying, “we thinking those are the same dogs that chased us back at Kendal?”

Wade referred to the first night that our group had returned from our captivities. When we had left the abandoned medical research building and struck off into the darkness, only to discover that a pack of preternaturally intelligent hounds were tracking us. I shuddered at both the memory and the possibility that those creatures might still be after us weeks later.

Raion-ju and Tegan paused and each did something with their hands. I suspected that whatever the duo did was the trick for the Briar-Finding glamour. Then both guides stood stock still for a few thumping pulse-beats. When the pair came out of their trances, the petite auburn-haired white-girl and the six-foot-six wall of a black-guy, looked at each other and shrugged. Then Miss Bramblerose and Rai turned to Iron Wade, as if they were Harpo and Lucy doing the mirror routine. I bit my lip to keep from laughing at the weird juxtapositions; finding it even funnier to cast Rai as Lucy.

Tegan answered the weathered gnarling, “No, they’re definitely not the same pack from Kendal. But, that doesn’t mean these guys aren’t tracking us, there’s just no way to tell for sure. It doesn’t seem likely that they are after us, though…yet.”

Running my hand over the hand-mirror in my jacket pocket, I frowned at thoughts of its reliability. Scrying magic was second only to wishes, in fairytales, for causing trouble. I had already confirmed that the device definitely had power, my allies unaffected by the lavender dream had admitted that they had seen my tests working. The thing that I had to figure out was if the magic of the looking-glace was reliable, random, capricious, or out right malicious. Not sure how else to go about it, I pulled out the mirror and gave it another try, before our troupe started moving again.

“Mirror, Mirror, from the wild, please show who abducted the child.”

The button-bright face of Aeolean, Master of Boys and the Keeper whom I had escaped, appeared in place of my reflection. The Bright one’s amazing-terrible piercing eyes of endless sky saw and recognized me.

“Gowaygowaygoway!” I shouted almost involuntarily, while jamming the mirror into my pocket. My shaking limbs helped to stop me from bolting madly into the dense cover of the untamed woodland.

My outburst, naturally drew my companion’s attentions. I was treated to my gang’s barrage style questioning. “What happened, Tommy?” “What did you see, Tommy?” “What’s the big deal?” and more.

Reeling, I tried to deflect their badgering: “Nothing’s wrong. No one. I don’t know.” I had hoped that any of them would pay just enough attention to clue into my abject denials as that not being the time or place for such discussion. Simultaneously, all the jibber-jabber made it that much harder to try and suss out what seeing the Master of Boys meant. Had the mirror understand my plea? I thought actually saying please would help. Was Aeolian truly behind Joey’s abduction? Did He really see me through the looking glass? Was that enough for Him to find me? Even if He did not know exactly where I was, would the image be enough to provoke Him to seek me more ardently? Did He see my traveling companions? Would that matter? When He came, could I flee faster than the others?

I grew more and more terse under the relentless gang questioning. Iron Wade was in one of his particularly tenacious moods and hit on the wrong nerve. “You’re contradicting yourself, Tommy. Why not just come clean?”

I especially did not care for the allusion that I was lying or covering up some data. I barked back, “Well, why don’t you just start calling out the name of whoever enslaved you for over fourteen decades!?” Iron Wade had mentioned, at one of our breakfast share-times, that he had dreamembered his fae-captivity lasting more than one-hundred-and-forty years. I turned to include the others, my voice thick with sarcasm, “I’m sure that speaking out _those_ names, in _this_ place, couldn’t _possibly_ be a bad idea! Or that talking about it in detail, _right now_ , must be the best time!”

The seven of them became quiet for a prolonged moment, although, for Rai that meant no change. Wade broke the silence, softly stating, “Oh… okay… yeah, I get it.”

          We quickly converted the awkward silence into our typical silence, as we continued with our trek. I was at least thankful for my colleagues poor social perceptions, in so much as I was pretty sure that none of them registered how close I had been to tears. The terror and longing in seeing that face—that beautiful-horrifying, old-young face—had almost been too much. Especially, when compounded with being exposed in the groping Briar.

Left to my thoughts, I was able to slowly regain my composure, while all seven of my cohorts took to searching out the signs of Johnny’s passage. I was not sure that we really moved any faster, yet the others acted as if we were getting farther from the unseen canines quicker.

         

Another span of longish-unclear time later, Mr. Granitbane waved his big rough-hewn hand, “Hey guys,” he stage whispered, “There’s something rustling, over hear.” A rectangular orange finger pointed off the Ways.

          Cautious investigation did not reveal a fatigued Johnny or a huddling Joey. Instead an abominable creature was tangled in the prickery underbrush. The nightmarish beast had the hind quarters and head of a stag, yet the fore limbs and teeth of a large hound, and the fresh angry-pink scars showing were the two animals had been stitched into one. The hideous thing squirmed and shivered and tried to simultaneously freeze and lash out at Tegan and Gavin, as they approached it.

The agile bloomwell got within arms reach of the entangled creature and tried to talk the ensnaring vines into letting go. After a handful of long moments, Tegan sighed, “No good.” She did not take her steady emerald gaze off of the terrible frightened double-thing, “I might be able to get the vines to grow more, but that’ll only make it more trapped.”

“So,” Sean Tallwind spoke from the presumably safe distance, at which the rest of us stood, “do we leave it as is, or put it out of its misery.”

Freerunner shuddered, “Rrr killin’ it’ll rmph make a smell. Urgh those hounds rerer will come.”

“Yeah,’ Iron wade added, “there probably hunting the thing in the first place. So, leaving behind will also put them on our trail, for sure.”

After a brief pause, Tegan nodded, while drawing the two slender knives from each of her sleeves. “Plan C, then.” She still watched the creature. “Gavin, get its attention, so I can cut the vines.”

Thus, Mr. Granitbane lunged at the abomination, from various directions. While nimble Miss Bramblerose came in from the other side, severing vines with deft slices. In relatively little time, the Franken-beast was no longer held in place, though many severed thorny tendrils still clung to its mismatched fur. As Gavin and Tegan stepped back from the thing, it growled and skittered clumsily, off to the west. At least, it was the direction which I had chosen to call west, with no compass or such like with which to tell actual directions.

Just as the hart-hound (harnd? hount?) fled, the baying sounded again, from the east. That pack was closer than ever before. So, we returned to our own hasty hunt, long the north-bound Ways. All of us, I believed, hoped that the hounds only sought the harnd and that they would not pick up our crossed trails.

 

The unnerving baying had finally died off into the far distance and smaller woodland noises started to return, by the time we came upon the stink hole. A chasm roughly a dozen feet wide bisected our Ways. The crevasse was about as deep as it was wide and the rank smell of feted water, bad eggs, and rotting vegetation billowed out of it. The gap extended as far as the eye could see in either direction—not that any of us wanted to venture that far off the Ways in any case.

A sliver of sky could be seen; the impenetrable black blanket of clouds blocked the moon again. So, there had been no way to gauge how much time had past since we witnessed the hatchet-heads eating barnacle geese.

Miss Bramblerose and Mr. Rai did the thing with their hands again, that mesmerized them for a few seconds. Rai bowed to Tegan and they actually had a brief hushed confab, before Tegan reported to the rest of us.

“It will take way too long to circle around this pit.” Tegan gestured open palmed to the gap in the earth. “And we are sure this same Ways resumes directly across there.” She pointed.

I wondered if our quarry had sabotaged whatever bridge he had used. If so had it just been a precaution, or was the kidnapper aware we were chasing him. Or since Rai claimed that Johnny smelled like decay anyway, did the darkling blighter simply climb down and wade through the stench bog. As I mused, my allies were discussing vines, jumping, makeshift stilts, throwing each other, and other unlikely options to traverse the stink hole.

The mighty Gavin got bored with the discussion and brought us all out of our reveries, as well as solving the problem. The hobbyist weightlifter stepped over to a two story tall tree, squatted down, hugged the trunk, then lifted it free of the earth. I will not say that Gavin made it look effortless, but I would be less scared of him accidentally squishing me, had he strained more. I also saw again the side of the earthen fellow which made me consider him to be more of an ogre than elemental. Gavin grinned maniacally, as he walked the tree over and placed it as a bridge across the crevasse; really working the ends into the ground for stability.

 

After our posse picked up Johnny’s trail once more, spindly fingered Sean asked if anyone knew the time. I groaned inwardly, believing that we had been walking on borrowed time and now the proverbial bell would toll. Magical thinking often manifested outside of the mundane world, it was why had had been steadfastly refusing to even think about anyone saying “At least it’s not raining”. In this case, however, our collective luck held better than I expected. After stoic Rai and vivacious Tegan enacted their glamour, again, they concluded that it was approximately three in the morning.

Which made me think about how three-o’clock had been when we had all first revived in the real world, after fleeing the Other. Three AM had also been when each of us inevitably woke—sweating, angry, and afraid—from the dreamemberings which had erratically plagued our nights, since returning home. I rubbed my temples, I was developing a complex about that hour of the morning.

My attention returned to the conversation at hand when the saggy skinned sour puss Sean pointed out, “So, dawn’s, what?… in a little less than four hours.”

“That means,” Iron Wade’s rasping voice sounded incredulous as he held his weapon in one armpit and blew on his marred hands, for warmth, “we’ve been out here more than eight hours, tracking this kid?”

“Closer to nine-and-a-half.” Miss Bramblerose amended, rubbing her own alabaster hands up and down her green-blue flannelled arms.

“Even if we do find and retake the boy,” Tallwind’s hang-dog expression was the same as ever, “we can’t logically be able to get back to the ritual site, in time.”

Expecting the bad news kept my chest from turning to lead. My mind raced for what our collective should do next. I doubted that returning to the Barrow Mound and reporting failure would go well for us. Would neutral Ariadne’s be a safe place?... would we be secure at our haven, only interacting with the Red Court of the Western Territories?...

Meanwhile, Tegan and Rai shook their heads definitively, at the gnarlings’ pessimism. The bloomwell path-finder explained, “Not true. The Briar doesn’t use that kind of logic. Time _is_ running out and we need to find Joey soon, but we still have a chance to get him back on time.”

My innards lurched, as hope and skepticism wrestled inside me. As much as my penchant for research had made me this gang’s defacto knowledge center for general spirit-touched trivia, Raion-ju and Miss Bramblerose had never been wrong about the Thorn Maze, yet.

So, past the tree-bridge, we trod on our Ways, though our troupe had barely started moving again when Raion-ju collapsed. Our default medics, Tegan and Sol, went to Rai’s sides immediately. The rest of us went on guard.

In addition to preparing my cold-iron knuckles, I reduced my faery-light as far as I could. Iron Wade and Tallwind dropped their torches and stepped away from them. The fencer’s saber also raised, ready for action. Gavin and ‘Runner turned their backs to our party, scanning the surroundings. The hairy fellow chattered quietly to his ferret friends, who in turn slinked into the underbrush.

          The auburn-haired angel of mercy reported from her crouched position, while Dark Sol continued to examine our gently moaning ally, “He’s sweaty and pallid and can’t focus. My glamour didn’t help.” Tegan’s heart-shaped face was stricken paler, in the dim flickering light.

“I can’t find any wounds or rashes to account for his symptoms.” Sol stated, staying close—almost clinging to Rai’s much larger form.

The rest of us just scanned the nearby forest for attackers.

“Psst!” the chunky dark form of Gavin hissed and stage whispered, while trying to act like he had not seen something, “Weird shadow shape on my ten, maybe a dozen yards out.”

I saw that everyone, except Dark Sol, understood what ‘on my ten’ meant. So I followed the other’s gazes, as did Sol. About forty-five degrees to Gavin’s left and roughly twelve paces away, a dark creature the size of a small pony stood more still than the breeze rustled foliage. The thing may have been a type of dog, but its long shaggy hair hung down, obscuring what few details may have been seen by our pathetic torch lights. Shaggy looked more like a small, mobile, black haystack, than anything else and I was guessing at the mobility because of what I took to be its four legs. After a moment’s observation, it was clear that the shaggy beast was staring intently at Rai. At least, the head bit of the black haystack was pointed fixedly at our fallen comrade.

I verified my observation, “Is it staring at Rai?”

A gentle chorus of “yeps” came in reply.

Orange Mr. Granitbane wasted no more time, grabbing up a cobblestone, the size of his own rocky head and whipped it at the skulking thing. The beast moved swift, although not fast enough. The projectile glanced off of, what was most likely, the thing’s shoulder.

The hairy voyeur moved back into the woods, another dozen or so paces, yet kept an unobstructed sight-line to Rai. The panther-y guy did seem to improve slightly, which was all the encouragement that Gavin needed. The ex-rescue worker selected and hurled another surprisingly large rock. When that rock also hit the creature, it retreated out of sight and Raion-ju returned to normal, within the span of a handful of breaths.

The pernicious part of my brain wondered if it had been fair to simply assume the creature was to blame. The rest of my mind shouted that nonsense down as obvious nonsense. If something in the Briar seemed malicious, then it was, until proven otherwise—even then, it might turn bad.

“Oh, hey, yeah…” My internal argument sparked a memory. “One of the times that I was at the library, I was trying to research how to best approach Chinese guardian creatures. You know, because of the liquor store owners that we met.”

My cohorts put together replacement torches, while I spoke. It was actually the fourth or fifth time that such replacements had been needed. I magnanimously refrained from commenting on the flimsiness of the redundant makeshift light sources. I also kept my faery aura dim, until we were ready to travel once more.

“Anyway,” I tugged absentmindedly on my earlobe, “according to the internet, there are these things translated as disease-spirits. Like a bunch of tales of Asian spirit-beings disease-spirits have several physical descriptions, but long black hair was absolutely one of them. Plus, they usually have the ability to cause sickness by concentrating their desire. So, I’m sure that that is what Gavin just scared off.”

Thus, all eight of us redoubled our tracking efforts, yet again. Now also concerned that the disease-spirit might have a more potent glamour or may return with others of its kind.

I did wonder aloud, “With Asian disease-spirits and those tropical looking axe-beaks, is it possible that we’re closer to south-east Asia, than anywhere else?” The thought had been both intriguing and dread inducing.

“Nope.” Tegan’s reply was quick and confident. “Definitely still nearest to the Midwest Territories, in terms of the mundane world, at any rate.”

I sighed, disappoint that the news had not felt more reassuring, and check my position.. Still central to the party, we moved on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	12. Chapter 12

** XII **

Rather than all eight of us continuing to look for signs of our quarry’s passage, though, we returned to having four trackers, while the rest watch for signs of incoming danger. After the stench bog, there was an increased number of blighter-marred foliage. Then, just as I started to believe that the darkling Johnny was growing more careless, the sighs thinned out once more. Sean Tallwind grumbled something about the Ways being narrower and more vegetation laden, near the smelly crevasse.

          Our party was just slowing back to a scour-every-leaf pace, when one of Freerunner’s ferret flunkies flushed another abomination into our path. Like the harnd, this new hideous-pathetic beast was a crude amalgam of two animals, a possum and some sort of bird. Again the sutured areas seemed fairly fresh and the thing’s actions were at odds with itself. The Franken-creature tried to take to the air and fake passing out, at the same time, resulting in an awkward leap upward, then fall on its back.

“Um…” I hesitated to suggest something that I was not prepared to do myself. “Should we, uh, let it go?” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I mean, uh, it seems like it’d be kinder t put it out of its misery.”

My associated glanced at each other thoughtfully. “Runner spoke up fastest. “Rrr death herere will call othererer things that’ll urrm be able to rrph track us from herere.”

“Same difference,” there’s-always-a-down-side Tallwind said, waving a distorted hand at the Wilder Woods, “if that pack, or anything else, is already hunting it.”

“Even so,” Tegan Bramblerose was biting her plum lip and tapping her delicately tapered chin, “Killing it is a surefire way to draw predators to this spot. Leaving it be, means there is a better chance that whatever might be after it, will ignore our trail for the easier prey.”

Thus, ‘Runner wrangled his ferrets and we all did our best to avoid the half-thing and continue on. Personally, I lost more track of time, as I had to wrestle down my impassioned fantasies. Tegan was always attractive, but the unexpected tactical analysis had really revved my choleric motor.

So, before I knew it, our trackers stopped once more. Pretty Miss Bramblerose stood with fine hands on curvy hips, “Trail’s dead. No more signs of sick plants, or blood, or anything.”

“Everyone spread out,” Iron Wade the Man of Steal rasped with a shrug, “and start scanning either side of the path. We’ll work our way back to the last marker?” He had more asked than ordered.

I was excited here yet another solid tactical method proposed, though, my fancy did not fly off with any images f the dour gnarling fencer. Therefore, it was easy enough for me to join the others, canvassing for missed clues. While we all generally stayed on, or barely off of the Ways, Gavin Granitbane wandered farther afield. I did not notice the rough-cut bodybuilder, or else I would have called him back. I told myself that the same was true for my other companions. When Gavin returned, with his cantankerous burden, I could only image that nigglers had eaten the parts of his memory that had housed the “wandering off the Ways, may allow the shifting Briar to lose you” message.

Still, luck was with Gavin, as we all heard a strange voce cursing a blue-streak, from several yards into the trees. The swearing grew closer. Then Mr. Granitbane strode into view, with a large hollow tree-trunk on his shoulder. The foul language was emanating from the log.

“Found our dude.” Gavin announced, as he shook a sickly looking fellow out of the log, before setting the trunk aside.

Our suspect/quarry, Johnny, righted himself quickly, as if he had lots of practice getting up from being tossed down. The greasy-haired punk was about my height, except stood hunched and curled making him seem several inches shorter. The blighter’s skin was waxy, yet flaky in some places, and a mottle of sickly yellows, greys, and greens, as well as covered in sores and rashes—most predominantly a large tumor along the right side of his head and face. Johnny’s lanky hair may have been blond, although was so filthy that I could not be sure, and his ragged clothes were easily as bad—sneakers fastened with garbage-ties, jeans that were mostly holes, button-less/zipper-less jean jacket, and an old The Cure t-shirt. Mixed in with my revulsion and outrage at the living pustule was a grudging thread of respect, for his shirt actually being successfully worn ironically. Johnny’s rheumy-yellow eyes constantly darted around, seeking an escape route or any amount of sympathy to exploit.

Our party ringed the new-comer, well enough to prevent attempts to run. However, the stench of decaying flesh was so thick around Johnny that none of us could stand being within arms reach of him. The sensitive noses of Raion-ju and Freerunner kept them a dozen paces away. We also kept our distance, because in spite of Red King’s claims about Johnny being a vegetation blighter, he may still know additional glamours which could effect us.

I had a nagging feeling, as if Johnny was familiar. It was not until I reviewed my personal notes, much later, that I made the connection. While conversing with Prof. Peter Dionysus, on one of my first trips to Ariadne’s Freehold, the faun whacked Johnny on the head, driving the begging blighter away.

“Where’s the boy? Were is Joey?!” Gavin glowered, growled, and clenched his boulder fists at Johnny.

“Uh, hey man,” Johnny’s nasally voice warbled and cracked, “you’re, like really strong, man.”

Iron Wade stepped next to the rocky bouncer, his saber held low but ready. The haggard gnarling barked, “Don’t try and change the subject! Where’s the kid?!”

All other woodland sounds went still and my compatriots raised voices almost echoed in the quiet.

“Umm, what kid, man? Uh, Johnny Rotter don’t know nothin’ about no blonde kid, man.”

“Yes, you do!” Wade’s sword twitched. “You just said blond, we did not say he was blond! “

“Oh, um, hey, you didn’t?” Johnny Rotter's furtive gaze kept darting around the area, “If your not after a blond, what color hair does the kid you lost have, man, maybe I seen ‘im?”

“Listen you little turd!” Gavin stomped two steps over to a sapling, grabbed it with one red-orange mitt, and pulled it free of the ground. “Don’t try and play that game with us, or I’ll re-plant this down your throat!”

I covered my mouth and rubbed thoughtfully, to hide the grin. Partially, Johnny’s banter was faster and more clever than I expected, so it seemed funny. More absurd was the fact that “turd” was a major swear word for Mr. Granitbane. I sobered myself by conceding the gruesome likelihood that Gavin was speaking literally about the sapling.

Iron Wade clenched his teeth, to stop shouting, “Look Johnny,” his tight-lipped rasp created a decent Clint Eastwood impression, “we know you took the boy, Joey, from Red Rhea’s ritual. We know you were carrying him along this Ways. Where is he now?”

“Hey, look man, maybe you’re lookin' for a Johnny, but not Johnny Rotter.” The Blighter swallowed hard as Gavin's tightened grip made the sapling crack. “Uh, yeah, right right. Look Johnny Rotter might of seen your kid, man.” If anything his winy voice became even more high pitched and nasal. “Only the kid ain’t here, man.”

“Where _is_ he!” both interrogators said in unison, through clenched teeth.

“Whoa, stereo, man.” Rotter said.

For the most part the rest of us saw no reason to interject, beyond continuing a united blockade against Johnny’s escape. Although Rai, ‘Runner, and the ferrets were more dedicated to watching for any new threats from the environment. Iron Wade raised his saber, to point, unwaveringly, at Johnny’s chest.

“Okay, okay,” Johnny shook more violently, but did not try to step back, “shit man, Johnny Rotter didn’t… uh, don’t got the kid. Damn, man.” His eyes were fixed on the sword point. “Maybe the thing is, uh, that Johnny Rotter seen the kid on the path here and the kid just, like wigged out and split into the woods, right?” He swallowed again and looked on the verge of tears. “So, like kids are valuable…”

“What?!” Tegan shouted and Johnny’s head whipped around to see the beautiful fury on her heart shaped face. The Bloomwell’s delicate freckles were completely lost in the deep red anger on her cheeks and her emerald eyes fairly sparked.

“Uh, uh, like you know, not like valuable.” The scabrous creature could not decide which threat was greater, but still only shuffled his feet a little, “Kids… the thing is somebody is always lookin’ for a lost kid, right? So, like, someone must want the little blond boy back, right? So, like, that’s what Johnny Rotter is thinkin’. So, anyway, the kid, like totally scarpers into the woods, right?” His unsteady voice started to lower in pitch, but he continued to shake. “And, like the woods are dangerous and like super easy to get lost in, right. So, Johnny Rotter called all sweet and shit to the kid,” Johnny affects a sleazy tone that he seemed to think of as friendly, “Hey little dude, it’s like dangerous out there. Come on back to your friend Johnny Rotter and we'll find your moms and pops.” His voice returned to it’s nasally norm.

“But like the kid don’t listen, right, and keeps going.” Runny-egg eyes flickered and lingered easterly. “And like, um, Johnny Rotter wants to help the little guy and all, but, um, like the woods are easy to get lost in. So, uh, Johnny Rotter figures, like wait in this convenient log and, like, the kid’ll get scared or hungry and, uh, probably, like come back, right?” He actually seemed honestly desperate for the last part to be true.

I was stunned and pleased, yet mostly stunned, that my colleague’s intimidation tactics worked. I had fully expected failure, probably by bombardment questioning confusing pathetic Johnny. I was even a touch disappointed, as I had been preparing a good-cop counter interrogation.

As it was, we all looked to each other with small nods and shrugs. Clearly, none of our party imagined that Johnny Rotter would provide any more useful information. It was Sean Tallwind who asked tersely, “Whatta we do with ‘im, now?”

A brief discussion revealed that none of us wanted to be responsible for hanging onto the walking sickness. Nor did we like the idea of leaving Johnny unfettered, to track us or report to his puppet-Master. The conversation barely started, though, when Gavin ended it.

The earthen weightlifter scooped up the hollow log, from which he had dumped Johnny Rotter. In one smooth motion, Gavin turned the tree-trunk on end, than slammed it over the blighter, driving the lumber easily two-feet into the packed ground. Johnny Rotter was left standing, a gross filling in a slightly-splintered barky tube.

Johnny let out a brief terrified yell as the shadow descended over him, but when he realized that he had been unharmed, he wheedled, “Awe, hey man, like that’s uncool.”

Our posse started walking off in the direction that Johnny had indicated last seeing Joey. The infected darkling pleaded as we passed his wooden cell, “Hey, dudes, come on. Like, don’t just leave Johnny Rotter like this, man… At least, like pass Johnny Rotter, like a smoke, man… come on…”

I regretted not having cigarettes to hand over. I imagined that the disgusting idiot would have either asphyxiated himself, in the confined space, or light his prison on fire, cooking himself alive.

 

After what felt like five or ten minutes of intense searching, Gavin Granitbane spotted small barefoot-prints and disturbed brush. I could only assume that our more olfactory oriented trackers were still recovering from the lingering reek of Johnny’s aura. Because even I spotted some blood, once the trail had been identified. Regardless, Gavin had been in the right place first and then practically jogged to catch up to the child.

“Probably shoulda asked how long ago the kid got away, huh?” Tallwind wheezed, as unhelpful as ever, while he tried to not get left behind.

“Can’t have been very long.” I tossed back. “There’s no way a slime-ball like Johnny would have waited in the log, before getting super bored and trying something else… equally as stupid.”

“Let’s hhrrr just hope.” Freerunner’s beady eyes darted to the trees all around, “urgh that he rrirr hasn’t been rrr gobbled up, mrph by a vermicious k’nid orrrr something.”

The sentiment spurred us all on. Then, after hardly any time, dashing through the Thorny Tangle, Gavin stopped. The big brick-ish fellow looked hard, at the terrain and snapped with frustration, “Where’d it go?!”

A weight dropped into my stomach, again. Then, the mighty nose, Raion-ju, sniffed deeply a few times and peered around. Straightening, the cat-eared lad pointed to a cluster of leaves, then another farther on, “Here. And here.” He growled and loped on

“Huh,” Sean observed, hobbling up and seeing the markers, before we all followed the two large fellows, “that’s probably a person’s trail, but way too high up for what the kid was leaving before.”

“So, probably snatched by some other douche.” Iron Wade said disgustedly.

“Or, Johnny Rotter’s boss.” Sean replied flatly, once more the ray of sunshine which gives you skin cancer.

That was about when the faint strains of Elvis Presley singing came drifting through the trees. The music got louder as we followed our newest trail. The path of bent branches and disturbed underbrush led to a low cleared hill. The King’s voice eerily thin and scratchy, wafted from the hill, crooning about a Heartbreak Hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	13. Chapter 13

** XIII **

The treeless hill forced another rare glimpse of the night sky, through the surrounding branches. The blanket clouds still spread across the sky’s full expanse, although it was thinner, revealing a defuse moonlight. The hint of a an apple-scented breeze barely disturbed my wavy blond-locks. Closer to our destination, the almost-wind picked-up odors of machine oil and cold metal.

Between the mechanical smells and the sound of an Elvis Presley record, I found myself wondering if we had left the Briar. My pre-supposition was based on my collective’s dryad-run haven, which was pretty magical in the quite magical Inbetween, yet did not have electricity. Accepting that the Briar could be coaxed into providing record-players and speaker, only made me imagine that the hill’s residents were far more experienced and powerful than my party.

Reaching the hill’s base, the eight of us encountered a wickedly thorny shrubbery. The obviously manicured hedge ringed the hillock, over a story high and easily as deep.

          Beyond the hedge-wall could be seen the source of the metal and oil smells. A junkyard of old car parts, shopping-carts, broken carnival ride carts, and other unidentifiable objects were strewn across an otherwise neatly trimmed lawn. A single small, ramshackled, corrugated-tin shack, was visible, at the apex of the hill. The building, if so it could be called, had been practically a stereotype of a pre-teen’s self “constructed” fort or clubhouse.

While walking and inspecting the thorn-riddled wall, clockwise, _Heartbreak Hotel_ came to an end. There had been quiet for a dozen seconds or so. Then, a gentle _pop-crackle_ and the King’s tinny voice emanated from the shed again, this time warning us off of his _Blue Suede Shoes_.

Moments later, my gang came upon a rusted, yet sturdy, iron portcullis. The gate blocked a gap in the hedge, three or for paces wide. The metal rods appeared to extend deep into the thorns, on either side, and a convoluted lock and pulley system, threaded with a couple of bicycle chains kept the bars down, from the other side.

Mr. Tallwind pointed a long dowel-digit, passed where the metal gate met the foliage wall. “Careful. I’m guessing that metal’s electrified… or something.”

A dull grass-stained metal rod extended along the ground, back from the gate. Just on the edge of the thick hedge-wall coppery wires coiled about the rod’s other end. A tiny bit of bright orange could be detected at the other end of the wiring, mostly obscured by leaves. There were general nods and murmurs of agreement, the copper wires were obviously an exposed extension-cord. Plus, the obviously recorded Mr. Presley was confirmation of the viability of electricity—at least, at that spot in the Briar.

Iron Wade the Man of Steal stepped up to the gate, sheathed his blade, cupped his scarred hands to his mouth, and called toward the shack, “Hello, in the shed!”

I reached eleven-one-thousand in my head, before the recorded song got a lot louder and a little clearer. An even louder voice spoke over the music, “What do you want?”

The tone was that of a polite waiter were taking our order, while the voice was hollow and scratchy, as if from a grade school PA system. Yet, the speaker was also monotonous and androgynous, giving the impression of disinterest even when asking a question.

Mr. Tallwind nudged Gavin Granitbane and Freerunner and pointed, then they did the same to their neighbors. Set into the thorn bushes, near the top and on the other side of the gate, was a ‘50s era intercom. More wires could just be made out running from the tablet sized device and down into the shrubbery roughly towards the extension cord, which Sean had first spotted.

“We’ve come for the boy!” Gavin barked at the intercom, with fireman/bouncer authority.

Elvis remained louder, during a slight pause, so we knew the com-link stayed open.

“I found him.” The voice said, as if that resolved any related issue.

“He’s not yours,” Tegan Bramblerose tried in a more reasoning tone, “he was taken from our friends and they want him back.”

I bit my lip. I felt that “friends” was overstating our relationship to the Salamander Court, yet knew such pedantry would be counter-productive. Another part of my brain wondered how long this could go on before Gavin, Rai, or Wade threw caution to the wind and grabbed the portcullis in an attempt to rip it out of the way.

“I am using him.” The light, high pitched voice chirped, again as if that resolved any confusion.

All eight of our spines went rigid. There was no good interpretation of that choice of words.

“We need to take him now!” Tegan’s emerald eyes stared at the speaker as she half pleaded and half commanded the plastic device.

After another brief pause, full of the more amplified “… _off of my blue sued_ _shoes_ …”, followed by the almost mechanical voice, “But I have him…” Then almost cheerfully, “You mean that you want to take the parts which I do not use.” The speaker seemed pleased to have realized our meaning.

“No!” several of us yelled, as one.

“We want all of that boy, whole and functional.” Iron Wade rasped quickly. “But we have another, that we can trade you for.” He whispered, to the rest of us, “Johnny-in-a-log, back there.” The weather-worn fellow nodded in the direction that he imagined held the Ways.

“You have another boy for me?” the voice’s version of excitement chilled my blood, the flat quality only sped up rather than actually emoting.

“Yes, he’s ba…” Our overly forthcoming bloomwell almost explained that we had left Johnny elsewhere.

Thankfully, the monotonous resident was done with listening. The intercom cut off, then a couple of seconds later, the portcullis chains moved soundlessly, and the gate rose.

Freerunner and Raion-ju stayed near the gate, to guaranty our exit route remained viable. The rest of us made the short trek up the grassy walkway. The six of us conducted a quick and hushed conference, in which it was agreed that we would take this stranger to Johnny—or vice versa—If we had to. However, from the stern looks of Iron Wade, Sean, and Gavin, bargaining probably would not be tolerated for long.

Up close the shack was larger than I had guessed, maybe twenty feet to a side. Everything about the structure indicated years of makeshift salvaging, each wall was composed of multiple materials and the only cheap-looking door was meant for interior use—like a closet. The only window visible was shuttered with part of an old A&W, fiberglass sign.

It was just as our troupe reached the plane hollow-laminate door that I had the gut tightening flash. For all any of us knew, the unseen proprietor might well be Johnny Rotter’s Bright One Master. I froze and swallowed hard, just long enough to be at the back of our loose line. I wondered if I would stand my ground or flee, should something a long black-coat or eyeless face, hove into view. I wanted to voice my concerns, unfortunately my uncharacteristically decisive cohorts acted before I could engage my vocal cords.

In the lead, Iron Wade did not wait on any ceremony, he just grabbed the faux-brass knob and yanked the door open, then strode in. My uncooperative mind was torn, as I saw that the dour fencer’s saber was still sheathed. If the shack’s owner was Johnny Rotter’s Keeper, then having the weapon out was far more desirable. On the other hand, if this was not a Bright One, then weapons drawn would hamper any chance for negotiations. Tallwind limped in second, followed closely by Gavin, then Tegan. The pale yet shadowy Sol was last to enter the so-called building, just behind me.

Inside was a single large room, decked out with all sorts of kitschy pop junkyard finds. The walls were covered with all kinds of old signage and mismatched shelves, filled with jars and boxes. There was very little other furnishings. A bed, made of old car backseats dominated the far corner. Beside the bed was the jukebox responsible for the continued Elvis soundtrack. Across from the entry was an almost bullet shaped ‘50’s era fridge. Centered, in the room, was an old leather-upholstered dentist’s chair and a flight-attendants push-cart laden with tools. There may have been something behind the chair, as well, however the two “people” in the room delayed my processing further scenery.

 _Blue Suede Shoes_ ended and, after the brief record-change delay, the juke dropped its needle onto _I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Cry (Over You)._

Little Joey, barely nine years old, had been strapped—arms, legs, torso, and head—Into the dental chair—with an eclectic assortment of belts and rope. The lad’s mouth was held forcibly open, with a contraption which belonged in Kubrick’s “A Clockwork Orange”. Joey was openly weeping, although he could not move and the only noises he could manage were choked gasps.

The most disturbing changeling that I had yet seen, stood over the captive boy. The stranger was a combination of plastic and wooden manikin parts, with obvious bolts and hinges screwed into place, for joints. The “person’s” hair was a bright-red, curly-plastic, cheep Halloween wig. When my group entered, the mismatched-manikin turned to face us, revealing mismatched marble eyes—one blue-green, the other milky-white. Unlike Gavin’s eyes which looked like eyes carved of polished marble, Joey’s torturer had to round glass balls, like from the child’s game, and each appeared to have been violently banged into the plastic face, leaving a web-work of cracks radiating outward. The face was also of two distinct parts, a peach colored feminine from the upper lip and above, a masculine silvered plastic below.

That unhelpful part of my mind wondered if this horror-show dentist was a darkling, like Sol. When I had met Tokka, the wooden errand-boy of Ariadne’s, I had accepted his appearance in stride. So, theoretically, the uneasiness spoke I experienced, in the junk-shack, may have been an indicator of facing a new darkling. “ _Or,_ ” another, much more snide, part of my thought process pointed out, “ _he could just be as melancholic as Sol. Or, most likely, the fact that the whack-job is about to disassemble a living child, might just be creepy enough on its own!_ ” A more practical side of me quelled the other distracting thoughts by simply being thankful that haphazard host was definitely not one of the Folk. All of which rolled past in a blink or two, before my senses insist that the rest of me pay attention.

“Hello, I am called Dahl, Ken Dahl.” The Franken-manikin monotone almost lyrically stilted and still hollow sounding, as if through an old speaker. When Dahl spoke the entire lower silver-portion of his face slid up an down, revealing a Polaroid photograph of the interior of a mouth. “Welcome to my home. Would you like a drink?” He reached over to a shelf and held up a mason jar, filled with what looked like neon-green antifreeze.

Ken Dahl wore a flimsy lime green ladies rain coat backwards, as a smock. Otherwise, the disturbing spirit-touched wore a clean white dress shirt, brown slacks, black socks and mismatched dress shoes. The ensemble seemed practically normal, compared to the wearer and our surroundings.

“Uh, no thanks.” Wade was the first to recover enough composure to speak. “We just want the boy.”

Dahl turned his head to Joey, “He’s going to be parts of my friend.” His statements remained matter of fact and the speed of the words seemed almost cheerful.

A horrified silence in the room had been filled and exacerbated by Elvis crooning ‘… _cry over you._ ”

“You don’t need him,” Our haggard negotiator said, trying to match the host’s neutral affectation “we’ve got someone much better back at the Ways.”

Mr. Dahl did not seem to be listening. “He won’t have to be lonely… it’s so lonely here…” Ken Dahl selected a utensil from the push-cart, as he turned his head 180-degrees, to glanced back at us. The pliers-like tool looked perfectly designed for grabbing ad holding a tongue.

“Do not let him use that thing.” I murmured softly to my teammates. I hoped that Dahl’s insanity would keep his attention of my words and deeds. Almost as much as I hoped that any of my cohorts heard me and would comply. I also stared edging my way around the interior of the shack, intent of freeing Joey from behind the chair.

Gavin Granitbane, at least, said “Right.” By way of confirmation.

Mr. Tallwind just snorted a sound that conveyed that he was way ahead of my advice, as he moved forward to Dahl.

Our horrible host asked, “You want to help me?” his mechanical voice almost sounded hopeful.

Sean touched Doll. I would confirm later that the dowel-fingered chap had cast a glamour. The joints, on the Dahl’s left side seized up. Gravelly Gavin and wiry Wade tried to maneuver in the close quarters, cramped with too many people. Petite and nimble Miss Bramblerose succeeded in getting between the dental chair and “Dr.” Dahl. Dark Sol smiled, watching from the entry, poised to leap into the fray, should any opening present itself.

Making it to the back of the chair, I started unbuckling straps and belts. While speaking quietly and as calm as possible to the lad. “Hi Joey, we’re here to get you away from this guy. Joey, try to relax, we won’t let him hurt you, anymore.”

I kept the soothing statements going, while the fight raged less than barely two-feet away. Although, I suspected that I was reassuring myself more than young Joey. Meanwhile, Ken Dahl slapped Sean a frantically, with his functional wooden right-hand. The loose-skinned gnarling countered with more of the same and some of Dahl’s bolts popped off and rolled under shelving. To make matters worse for the mish-mash manikin, agile Miss Bramblerose also planted solid kick, knocking out one of Dahl’s knees—to a loud accompanying _crunch_.

By then, Mr. Granitbane had been able to press in, next to Sean, and punch Dahl in the face. The rough-rocky fist struck so hard that the pink-plastic split in two down the middle. Ken Dahl collapsed to the floor, part of his head rolling under the push-cart/tool-bench.

I watched with horror and fascination. Within the unfortunate changeling’s head cavity were a couple of brown mice. The rodents had been running on wheels, amongst toothpick levers and rubber-band belts. The mice immediately scurried out and started industriously collecting the loose pieces of plastic and bolts, back to Dahl’s body. Was felt a breath escape my lips, which I had not realized I that had been holding.

Ken Dahl’s talk of loneliness had made me wonder if taking him back to the Hawk Wood Court, or Ariadne’s Freehold, might be all that he needed to stop whatever he was doing in the deep Briar. Seeing that the mice would probably get the androgynous fellow working again, after my party had left with Joey, gave me some hope. I imagined getting Tegan to lead me back, after the Child’s Rite was settled, to coax Dahl to come with us to one of the fae communities.

In my stunned musing, I neglected to continue my task. So, Tegan drew one of her concealed knives and Iron Wade assisted with his sword. The bladed duo had Joey free of his bindings in moments.

The activity forced me to move back and look away, lest I get cut by a flashing blade. Which is when I realized that behind the full-sized dentist’s chair was a child-sized pick-velvet wingback-chair. In the small seat, I wanted to be seeing a battered ventriloquist’s dummy, or maybe a large tattered rag-doll. My eyes refused to support the lie, though. My fingers went numb with the shock of recognizing that the figure in the chair was a partially completed child-version of Frankenstein’s monster. There had to be at least a half a dozen different children's worth of parts. The only pathetic excuse for a kindness that I could process was that there was no visible blood

Again, the echoes of Dahl’s claim of lonely reverberated in my head. The cobbled-together collection of artificial parts said that he was making a companion, one that would be more like him. The poor creature probably even imagined that using real flesh was a way to give his new friend a better life. My saddened eyes again wondered to the scuttling mice, as I wondered if Dahl was too far gone to be saved by leading him to other spirit-touched.

Then the speculation was cut off and rendered moot, by Gavin Granitbane. The once-upon-a-time-rescue-worker simply dropped the heavy old refrigerator on the mice and what was left of Ken Dahl’s upper body. Gavin’s grunt and stance was one of satisfaction. The _crunch/squeak_ , on the other hand was easily as sickening as the sight of the partially constructed Franken-child.

The force of the blow caused the jukebox needle to jump and Elvis stopped his mournful tune, replaced with a repetitive _thp-shk-thp-shk_ …

There was nothing to say, it was just too late. Ken Dahl had been slaughtered and none of my companions seemed to have any trouble with Gavin’s coupe de grace. All I could do was try and not freak out; if I did, those “allies” might just leave me there. Part of me thought it might be for the best, although none of me wanted to be alone with the corpses.

          As I moved with haste, out of the now ownerless junk-haven, I noticed that Sol and Tegan had already ushered Joey out as well. The thin, possibly undernourished boy continued to weep, for a long time; very, very quietly.

Through the thin clouds, the sky had grown slightly paler. At the portcullis, Tegan and Raion-ju did their Briar Finding glamours and conferred for a minute, before the auburn over emerald beauty addressed the rest of us, “I think it’ll take over an hour to walk directly back to the ritual site, which will probably cut our timing very close.” She pointed a thumb to the large black prowler. “Rai, says that the portal we came through, the red door, is reset to a spot about a half-hour away.” She took a deep, flannel stretching and unintentionally distracting, breath and sighed. “As long as the door still leads back to the ritual site, then that’ll give us enough time. If it leads somewhere else, then we’re definitely screwed.”

We all agreed, in very short order, to try for the portal-door.

Young Joey had curled into a ball at our feet, Gavin lifted him gently and effortlessly, and carried the kid like a football. Without needing to track anyone, our party moved through the tangled and thorny forest at a much faster pace than we had on the relatively clear Ways. We did hear the baying once or twice more, yet not close enough to alter our travel.

I spent the journey trying to cope with what my haven-mates had become and what that meant for me. Killing the redcaps—I found it practically impossible to grasp that the fight at O’Malley’s had been one day ago—had not been cool, although at least I believed they had been vicious and relentless monsters. I would have preferred to drive the ‘caps off, yet accepted that had they lived, then they were likely to return in grater force… But Dahl… well, maybe he was not all that different. Ken Dahl did have a mostly formed homunculus and that had been made of more than one human child. Which probably explained at least some of the recently missing children of Athens. Which also implied that lonesome Dahl had probably been getting parts from the Folk that had made him and the hard and other mismatched creatures in that area of the Briar. So, Ken Dahl may have been another puppet…

Still, I could not shake the feeling that the lonely Frankin-manikin could have been rehabilitated in a way that I do not believe the redcaps ever could have been. Of course, none of the rest of my party seemed to have seen Ken Dahl as I had.

No matter what, both foes must have been as human as all of us once were… Between Dahl’s murder and the massacre of the redcaps and how casually my associates committed those acts, I seriously wondered how different my gang was from those that they killed. I also started to worry about when one of my comrades would decide that I had done something that they felt warranted my unarmed death. So, what was I going to do about their blood lust, the next time? Especially, if it were to be directed at me...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	14. Chapter 14

** XIV **

The red door was found, standing on its own, in a small clump of saplings. A bit of distressingly light sky was visible through the young branches. So, we did not deliberate. Iron Wade the Man of Steal partially opened the door with his scarred left-hand, saber ready in his right, and peeked through; verifying that the portal led to Red Rhea’s ritual site. Then, the eight of us, plus Joey, piled through the portal.

The sliver of sky was even paler, on the Salamander Mound side of the magical doorway, noticeable even in a hazy fog, which had risen in the ritual’s clearing. The sluggish lavender-tinted fog was just thick enough to make the nearby tree-line seem shrouded behind flimsy gauze. Even so, it was obvious that the Briar was still extra thick and thorny. In spite of the misty-fog, the air was dry and filled with the smells of burning wood and the sweat from the collective anxieties of the gathered courtiers and Freehold guests.

          The crowded assemblage, oddly were all roughly where they had been so many hours earlier, although in more heated arguments than before. No physical altercations had broken out, yet shouts and grumbling collide all around. My first impression was that time had moved slower in this patch of the Wilder Wood, then wondered how that could account for the brightening sky.

          “Can you believe this!” Iron Wade’s horse voice shouted, his expression a mixture of anger and distress, while trying to draw attention. “We, unsworn new-comers, save their precious child and they sit here bickering the whole time!”

“I should hope that they are working out the size of our reward.” If Wade’s reprimand did not push the courtiers buttons, I suspected poking at their metaphoric purse-strings would. In actuality, I was worried that some negative feedback, from the interrupted ritual, was in effect. So, I could only hope that focusing attention on my team and Joey would help alleviate the issue.

Meanwhile, Tegan Bramblerose and Gavin Granitbane wasted no time with such frivolities, taking the still huddled Joey to the frantically pacing Red Rhea. The arcane scholar, in turn, resumed her chant and started to replace the thorns in the lad’s hands and feet. Rhea’s assistant, Homer, took up his position, holding open a massive tome, beside his mistress. Joey, not much smaller than Homer, uncurled and appeared to enter a trance, as soon as the butterfly cloaked lady resumed chanting.

A moment of relief washed through me. Along with a chaser of irony, since me and mine had tried so hard to thwart the Child’s Rite. Although, my inner accountant wanted to say, that considering what my gang had gone through to retrieve Joey, our books were balanced. From another angle, my tactical side was trying to deduce why the audience still had not settled down.

Then, the tableaux lurched, like an airplane in turbulence. A wave of chill washed through the sticky purplish fog, I even felt it through my Summer’s Embrace. The ground did not quake, yet my center of gravity jumped and, from the faces that I could see, the others all felt the same. A strong, hard to define, smell accompanied the effects, as if bleach and motor oil and ozone were all the same, was the closest analogy my mind could make. The ill effects had to have been from an extremely potent glamour, especially since they caused over half of all the spirit-touched to flee in terror. Including, Freerunner, his ferrets, and Raion-ju. Many more were transfixed, in abject fear, to their places amongst the tangled foliage.

As if a hooked-fish to a reel, my eyes were yanked toward the figure of death, incarnate at amidst the courtiers. The apparition was proven solid, as it preceded to cut Its way toward the ritual circle. The grim being was shaped like a seven-foot tall, powder-pale, rail-thin man. The terrible not-really-a-man was clad in crypt-black boots, pants, overcoat, top hat, and John Lennon spectacles, with a bleach-white shirt and glossy blood-red cravat. Every aspect of the outfit was crisp and immaculate.

In each pure-white hand, the man-shaped entity wielded a sparkling-silver straight razor. With inhuman poise, precision, and unrelenting force, the One Who Wears Black moved on, slicing to ribbons everyone unfortunate enough to be within his reach. A horrible-bright, wide, mirthless, smile adhered unflinching to His pristine-gruesome face. While disturbingly-thankfully no eyes could be seen behind the circular abyssal-lenses of His wire-rimmed glasses.

Compounding horror revealed that the unnatural fog only aided the vile-elegant being, as He stalked and whirled through the spirit-touched—like a balletic threshing machine. The syrupy mist must have been another glamour, slowing our reactions. All except the razor wielder, for the violet haze swirled and twisted away from the Wearer of Black.

Shouting and fleeing redoubled. Screams of agony joining the terror and the coppery odor of blood mixing into the stale smelling air. The relentless attired assailant made no sound.

My cabal were the only ones anywhere near the ritual circle, especially in the sluggish fog, and it was clear that the razor wielder was headed for Red Rhea and Joey. My jaw and spine stiffened with resolve. I was not about to let our efforts and deeds of that night be shaved away. just as I had argued against the ritual, well past the point in which I had clearly lost, seeing the Child’s Rite completed had become my new cause. None of us wanted to die, yet at that moment we were willing to do so, if it meant that Rhea’s ritual would finally be resolved. From the stances that I saw, from the corners of my eyes, it was clear that my remaining comrades were joining me. Whether for the same reasons or their own hardly mattered.

Even so, I did hope every second, that Red Rhea would complete the rite and it would drive the murderous barber away, with all of the force that the ancient magic promised.

The gruesome-sleek slicer moved faster than physics allowed, His form stretching and distorting to keep up. The glamour woven fog, muddled the rest of our muscles and perceptions, making all of us spirit-touched move as if in slow-motion. Iron Wade and I took positions, next to the ritual circle. The saber wielder also drew his stabapple-thorn, as a parrying weapon. I wrapped the foot or so length of cold-iron chain—which I carried for just this purpose—around my gloved right-hand. Athletic Tegan took a martial artist’s stance, ahead of me and off to the side, while readying her own stabapple-thorn. Dark Sol drew her hood tighter, while employing a glamour blending out of easy view into the murky shadows. I could barely spare the mental energy to hope that the darkling would act, rather than spectator. Muscle-bound Gavin seemed to consider uprooting a tree, to wield, as he skin hardening glamour turned his rocky hide from red-orange with bands of yellow, about wrist and neck, to concrete grey with silvery stainless-steel bands. Mr. Tallwind stood between our enemy, about a dozen paces from me and Iron Wade. Sean looked older, frailer, and slower as he stooped, rummaging for a weapon in his backpack.

Moments warbled together in a dreamlike mixture of blurred motion and adrenalin sharpened clarity. The foe was holding one of the courtiers by her antlers, with one hand, and drawing lines in her face with the razor in his other pristine pale grip. Then, the villain was standing in front of Sean and the wrinkled gnarling was falling to the ground, fountaining dark-red blood, from his throat. Tegan threw her thorn and it embedded into our enemy’s thigh, the Wearer of Black did not seem to notice. Sol appeared at our fallen and bleeding ally’s side, like a ghostly grim-angel, and started tending Sean’s wound. Perversely the thought wormed through the back of my head, “Is she a goth-angel of mercy or death? Is that pressure to staunch the bleeding, or is she sucking in the last of Tallwind’s vitality threw those palm-maws?”

Tom of the Holler—tall, broad, and powerful—ran-plodded up behind the rictus butcher, punching Him in the center of His black-clad back. The vile-haunting not-man did not flinch, yet the choleric Regent looked as if he had struck an oncoming train. I gulped, realizing that my chain wrapped knuckles were not going provide me enough extra force, should the enemy come to me.

All the while, Red Rhea dry and fervent voice provided a rhythmic background, as she strove to complete the Child’s Rite. The remaining court members stood in shock, ran about aimlessly, or tended to their fallen comrades. At least, that was my best assessment, based on what little attention I could spare to my peripheral senses.

I started pulling my new hand-mirror, from my pocket. Our disturbingly alluring field medic tossed her stabapple-thorn to Tegan. Iron Wade stood sternly resolved and ready, further along the Rhea’s circle from me. Cinder-block Gavin Had dismissed ideas of a tree-weapon, instead charging our enemy, albeit slowly through the indigo-fog.

The dexterous Miss Bramblerose took aim and propelled her new thorn, again piercing the foe, causing thick-black blood to ooze into the crisp-white linen over the villain’s gut. The malicious-barbarous fiend stopped still, looked down at His wound. The manic rictus became an equally extreme bitter frown. Then, the probably eyeless thing reached into His shirt and drew out the thorn—over a foot long. The eerie-horrible opponent spoke, with a caustic voice as thick as the fog, “You think _you_ are a match for a Warden?”

Then the awesome-awful villain spun and the thorn was no longer in his hand and the bleach-toothed grin once again stretched across his face. In the distorting dreamy mist, Gavin finally completed his charge, with an attempt to strike the thorn which was still lodged in the razor wielder’s thigh. Unfortunately, the foe’s spin had caused the blocky muscleman to hit the long black overcoat, with no discernable effect to our enemy. Yet, Mr. Granitbane looked as painfully jarred as had Tom O’Holler’s. Fair Tegan yelped, as our enemy’s re-thrown thorn pinned the alabaster back of Tegan’s left hand, through her palm, to the tree beside her.

As these images flew into my perception at normal speed, my body completed the action which I had started, what seemed like ages ago. Watching the magic looking-glass with one eye, I called out. “Mirror, mirror, please show this queer, the thing he does most fear.”

Even as I turned the flashing glass, to point it at our foe, I had another internal argument over my own wording. The present me simply needed a quick rhyme for “fear”, the liberal in me raged at the use of the slanderous word, and the word-nerd in me fell back on the pedantry of “queers” earlier meaning being synonymous with unusual. Luckily, the butcher had been more intent on the ritual, than me, thus he did not capitalize on the gap in my defenses created by my distracted musings.

Better still, the self proclaimed Warden shirked from whatever my mirror displayed, flinching behind a raised forearm like a cheesy cinema vampire from a crucifix. The razor wielding murder-source kept His head cocked, as if watching my mirror through the pit-black glasses, while He circled around the ritual area. The prick was trying to place the ritual circle between Himself and my magical image.

Having already resolved to see this fight through to its end and feeling a slim glimmer of encouragement from my mirror gambit’s success, I stepped forward. Keeping my silver-filigreed fashion accessory raised to our brutal and clever enemy, as a shield, I moved as fast as I could through the lethargic lilac-fog.

I plod-ran clockwise, around Red Rhea and the two boys, attempting to remain interposed between them and the barbaric-dapper Warden. Meanwhile, saber-ready Wade slow-ran counterclockwise, to head off any ultra-fast direction changes that our opponent might make. To no avail. The torpor haze was too much to overcome and the bloody carver easily out flanked both the Man of Steal and myself.

Through the bizarre dreamy distortions, skeletal Baron Samdi ran into the clearing, and leapt at the back of the distracted villain. The zombie-courtier slammed against our foe, rebounding back in a crumple of jagged limbs, like a bony rag doll thrown against a wall.

Somehow Iron Wade tapped into the temporal elasticity around us to tell a brief tale. I was unable to hear the story over the shouting and wails, however it could not have been more than a few paragraphs long. Not that it mattered, as I recalled the melancholic gnarling having tried the same thing during the redcap slaughter. The narration was part of Iron Wade’s Cause Fear glamour, so he must have been doubling up on my mirror’s success.

Nearby, martial maiden Tegan Bramblerose—in the sexiest display of conviction ever—gritted her pearly teeth and used her right-hand to yank the pinning stabapple-thorn free of the tree and her left-hand. Also, Mr. Granitbane had repositioned himself and tried to tackle our enemy, yet was only able to grab the bastard-fiend’s coattail.

Then, Raion-ju sped from the snarled-woods, even slowed by the mist he was a fast moving, dark, large, ferocious mass. The three-hundred-plus pound panther-lad bellowed a martial shout/roar, gaining even more muscle, in mid-leap. Clearly the below was a trick for a might enhancing glamour. Rai twisted gracefully, as well, to plant a flying kick on the villainous barber.

The timing was just right. As the prideful-monstrous Warden stepped to dislodge Gavin, He was exposed to Rai’s foot. Unfortunately, the felinoid strike did not seem to phase our enemy. At least, Raion-ju back flipped out of the razor-wielder’s reach.

“…Rosaries!” I only heard part of Tegan’s shout, as she crossed over to Dark Sol and the bleeding Mr. Tallwind. I would learn later that the buxom bloomwell had caught a glimpse of the image in my mirror, showing rosaries. Regardless, at the time, I had no rosaries or any religious iconography. However, Tegan’s shout had jumbled y puzzle-piece memory and remained me of the various other warding materials against powerful fae. So, no articles of faith, yet I did carry my trusty container of Morton’s salt.

I called on the cleansing and protection rituals I had so recently studied. Then, hoped very hard that the ritual part was not vital. All the while I move with urgent forced-slowness to retrieve the salt and still point the mirror a the bad-guy.

Recoiling from both my looking-glass and Iron Wade’s fear glamour our assailant changed tactics. Folding one silver-razor into a pocket and drawing forth a small humanoid creature, in one deft motion. The tiny sprite’s periwinkle and cream butterfly-wings were crushed in the malevolent Warden’s impossibly-white fist. My fleeting relief at a weapon being sheathed turned to stomach churning dread, as the One Who Wears Black the raised the poor delicate creature to His thin, pale lips. At first, it looked as if the villain were kissing the crippled fae, then the wee creature’s shrill screams pierced the thick air and the dastardly bastard tossed her aside, fresh blood weeping from freshly emptied eye-sockets.

Part of my lurching stomach was due to my remembering that Dark Sol had once gleefully reported having remembered the trick for one of her glamours. The trick was to ingest an eyeball. Further stomach constrictions occurred as I realized that I had not paid unsettling Sol enough attention to recall what the glamour did.

A charcoal-colored tongue licked the beastly butcher’s bloody lips, as he flicked powder-white fingers towards Iron Wade the Man of Steal. Hoping that there was a chance for my ally to resist whatever was being directed at him, I exhausted a large portion of my meager wyrd reserves, to cast Fortune’s Favor and Fickle Fate. The former to aid Iron Wade and the latter to reduces the eye-eater’s luck in casting. Wade hesitated and blinked for a moment, but was otherwise unaffected.

I would learn later form Iron Wade that his vision had blackened, briefly. Dark Sol would cheerfully confirm that the glamour was used for blinding, possibly permanently. I also, learned later, that while Wade and I fended off our enemy, Tegan used her Breath of Vitality to restore some of Sean’s health.

The saggy skinned fellow’s blood loss was countered, however his throat remained slit. Even so, Mr. Tallwind was able to sit up—with help—while Tegan wrapped his neck in torn cloth. The wounded gnarling also directed our darkling mistress to take the sawed off baseball bat, which he had wrapped in cold-iron wire, from his backpack. Sol, in turn, passed the enhanced club to grey and angry Gavin.

Meanwhile, the terrible-graceful butcher exploited an opening, rushing past me and Wade, grabbing into the ritual circle as he did so. The blackguard had successfully snatched Rhea’s assistant, Homer. The scholar Lady became so dismayed that she halted her ritual actions. However, that was the last provocation any of my cohorts or I needed.

My group, rarely, wholly agreed on much. The Folk stealing people to torture or kill was high on the list of things that we all rallied against. Hurting kids, in any manner, was another. Thus, grabbing young Homer only reduced our individual impulses to self preservation, while stoking our collective fury.

Finally liberating my container of salt, in my right hand, I drew more of my meager wyrd into the mineral. Holding my mirror facing the foe with my left-hand, I strode towards the grim cutter, trying to spray the salt onto Him with sweeping up-down-then-side-to-side gestures. I shouted, “Release the child, and be gone from this place, unclean thing!”

The seven foot-tall man-shaped monster was stooped over, in order to keep hold of Homer in one hand, without having to support the boy’s weight. My onslaught gave the fiend enough pause to keep the razor in His other hand away from the small brown boy. My distraction also provided the opening that Rai and Gavin needed.

Raion-ju moved, all steel-coiled muscles and precise rage, still swifter than the rest of us in the purple mist. Fortunately, Rai speed only meant that my allies to unintentionally synchronize their attacks. The predatory cat-ogre stalked in low, crouching on one leg and kicking straight out with the other. At that same instant Gavin “the Salamander Slugger” Granitbane swung Tallwind’s cold-iron entwined bat, at the enemy’s head. The bat missed the target’s skull, although did sink into His shoulder with a sizzle, like a soldering iron into Styrofoam. The reek of burning rubber and ammonia bloomed from the wound. While Rai’s heel connected with Tegan’s original stabapple-thorn, still stuck in the sinister villain’s thigh. The thorn was forced through the other side of the leg. The self-proclaimed Warden hissed in pain, as more black oily sludge oozed down his pants.

The foe in black released both Homer and razor. Grabbing His thigh, the pained villain turned and loped off—still preternaturally fast, in spite of the limp. Raion-ju snarled and bounded into the Briar after the routed rogue. Homer scrambled, silent and terrified, back to Red Rhea’s side and she clutched him protectively.

“Uh, hey! Can you finish the rite?” I half admonished and half implored Rhea to complete the ritual as I looked from her to the ever-brightening sky. I had no way of even guessing how much time had passed, since we had returned through the red portal. However, it only took seconds for the sun to go from rising to risen. I also worried that all was already lost, since Homer had breeched the circle mid-rite. A dread I was sure that Rhea shared, yet trying to finish was our only chance to avoid mystical backlash.

Gathering her wits and composure quickly, Red Rhea did complete the Child’s Rite. Tegan stayed with Sean and continued to tend his wound. Gavin, Wade, Sol, and I stood guard around the compass points of the ritual circle. Joey’s induced screams of terror, at the ritual’s culmination, were awful to hear. I could only be grateful that I was too drained and to numb to react.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 


	15. Epilogue

** XV **

** Epilogue **

As the scarlet scholar brought the rite to fulfillment, the dulling lavender fog dispersed, blown by an un-felt breeze emanating from the ritual site. The dark-clouds overhead thinned to ash-grey. Aromas of harvesting and cornucopias started to overtake the acrid wood-smoke and lingering sweat. Although, the coppery-tang of fresh blood, congealing into the earth, remained dominant. No frost was visible, though everyone’s breaths were.

At least a dozen spirit-touched lay dead and almost as many were severely wounded, awful signposts along the path which the be-razored fiend entered. The ground in that area was a gruesome dark-red mud. Tom of the Holler, Baron Samdi, and those few others whom had been able to resist fleeing and were also still able to move, started to tend the wounded and fallen. Even though Mr. O’Holler looked to be in need of such tending himself, his stony right-hand was held gingerly, as if it severely broken.

          Memory pieces clicked into a horrible, unfortunate thought. “Oh, please tell me,” I said to no-one in particular, yet loud enough for all, “that someone was paying attention to her.” Thumb-jab toward Red Rhea, while my voice betrayed a distinct level of desperation. “Because she said she wasn’t coming back next fall.”

A hush came as those who had heard me froze in worry. Then, a nearby tree shivered, morphing fairly swiftly into the mirror-skinned bronze form of Queen Glass Refractory. My immediate relief was echoed in the resumed activities of the courtiers. The autumnal monarch had clearly watched everything, from her disguised vantage, learning the Child’s Rite, in spite of the mayhem.

With the rite complete, Red Rhea, Homer, and Joey all slumped to their knees and spent some time on the ground mustering some strength. That trio was, therefore, left alone for a while.

 

My comrades and I gathered around Sean Tallwind, once more laying nearly motionless on the cold ground. Tegan Bramblerose knelt beside the gnarling, checking and rechecking the makeshift bandages about his neck. The auburn-haired medic also sporting a bloody strip of cloth, wrapping her punctured left-hand. Even furry Freerunner had found his way back to us, sans his ferret friends, though.

The somber bustling took place around my collective, as if we were surrounded by an invisible wall. After a consultation with a few of her people, the Queen strode sedately to our party, entering our unofficial private space, so that no entourage hovered near her, for a change.

“This Court,” The Regent Refractory’s voice rang and hummed, like wet fingers on crystal goblets, “expresses its deepest appreciation for your efforts of this past night.”

My allies were flagging hard from all of our exertions, to fully appreciate the gravity of the offered gratitude. Most of our gang had not rested in almost twenty-four hours, nor eaten in over twelve. Gavin Granitbane, Mr. Tallwind, and I had, at least, received sanguine Miss Bramblerose’s vigor replenishing glamour. However, Sean was occupied, avoiding a repeat loss of blood and Gavin was not very politic at the best of times, let alone while he remained on high alert for possible new threats. Meanwhile, I had been half-expecting something a court official to make such an overture, though I had not imagined that it would be the Queen.

“It is, ah, kind of you to say, um, your majesty.” I held my hands together, in order to stop them fighting. “Um, especially, in light of our, uh, earlier protests.” My tone was polite and gracious. “Ah, although, I am curious if, um, the Court’s gratitude might manifest in some more, uh… substantive ways?”

I tried not to invoke any of the attitude which would support the extortion theory that I had imagined earlier. On the other Hand, I understood enough of fairytales to know not to dismiss an offer freely given.

“What sort of reward do you seek?” The bronze Lady’s musical tone seemed amenable, while the convex curve of her polished-face slowly panned me and my colleagues.

My gut instinct was to ask for lots and lots of money. Then, I immediately realized that no sum would seem sufficient. I thought of my magic mirror and considered requesting more items of power. My amber-eyes, darted furtively as I calculated and I missed my chance.

From where she knelt, Tegan raised her heart-shaped face with a single dirt smudge on one slightly freckled cheek, “Is there some favor that we may receive from the Court? Something that can benefit all of our group?” fluttering her uninjured hand absently, she rolled her emerald irises, in a searching arc. “Like general goodwill, or safe passage… I don’t know the right term.”

The Queen’s shiny head cocked to one side, for a moment’s consideration. “We may grant you a boon?” Her melodic uncertainty still held a fair amount of decisiveness. “At the simplest, that would grant you standing as respected neighbors and guests, for purposes of warning each other of threats to your surroundings. Furthermore, the boon shall afford you each general access to Our facilities, for reasonable use.”

My haven-mates and I huddled for a quick round of whispers and nods, which confirmed that we all liked what the reflective monarch had offered. We each had to formally agree to not make hostilities with the Salamander Court itself and to respect their properties and privacies. Then, Queen Glass formally granted the boon. The tell tale _twist-twinge_ in my chest, head, and gut confirmed the oath was bound to the ubiquitous Gyr, as it resonated for what must have been a whole minute. It would not be until many days later that I would learn how rare of a privileged such access to any fae court was, for anyone not officially a sworn member .

As soon as the formalities were spoken, Queen Glass summoned a courtier, with one raised shiny-hand. The monarch and attendant spoke in whispers, heads bowed together. then, the unfamiliar spirit-touched darted off into the trees. Turning back to my team, Queen Glass said, “I have sent for a healer, for your wounded.” A glossy-metallic head tilt, indicating Sean and Tegan. “Although, due to the… terror fueled exodus, there are few readily available. Also, they have mainly been tasked with aiding Our wounded first. However, should any have wyrd enough left to cast a more potent healing glamour, than your own,” head tilt again to Tegan, “then they shall be instructed to do so.”

While the cluster of us waited, Iron Wade the Man of Steal asked Glass, “Do you have any idea who that guy in black was? Did he just hate Red Rhea?”

I squinted, wondering if Wade was playing dim, for some reason. Even I remembered full well that our foe fit the description of Johnny Rotter’s Master, as Red King provided the card-fellow. Or had the purple squid been a real enough niggler-like thing? And how much memory damage had it done?

The mirror-skinned Queen’s sussed the meaning in Iron Wade’s question which I had missed. “From His appearance,” her sheen dulled noticeably, “He matches the description of one known as Doctor Barber, one of the lesser Folk.”

Dark Sol, sickly in the dawn light anyway, went weak in the knees and needed to hold onto one of Gavin’s akimbo arms, for support. My disjointed puzzle-piece mind had known the brutal butcher must have been a Bright One, yet had somehow not made the connotation connections. Until Glass Refractory named the elegant-monstrosity. So, I also felt a flush run through me, making my limbs momentarily unsteady. Then, I straightened, recalling that I had not fled in spite of magical incentive to do so. Furthermore, we had one.

It was a profound revelation to accept that not all of the Folk were inconceivably powerful. Compounded with the proof that, as least, so-called lesser True Fae could be harmed, albeit by a large concerted effort.

There was some more milling about, while awaiting medical assistance, and I spotted a glint in the dirt, near the ritual circle. Red Rhea was just beginning to stir and the other spirit-touched would probably stop avoiding that area, in short order. Expecting the source to be medaling, I nudged my Iron Wade and pointed to the glimmer with my chin. The scar handed gnarling had display acute affinity for metals, so I picked him as most likely to recognize whatever was there.

Iron Wade swept the object up and returned, surreptitiously showing me Doctor Barber’s dropped straight razor. The deadly tool, handle and blade, seemed to be made of silver and light, with unusual patterns etched all over. As Wade’s scar-laced hand slipped the razor into his pocket, I wondered if his faery senses would have detected any magical homing-signals, or remote controls. I made a mental note research such possibilities, as soon as possible.

A dusty lad in a three-piece suit of palest pastel-hues came over, carrying a pink old-time physician’s bag. The elfin chap had the look of a pouty teenager. After a brief discussion with Glass, the fellow bent to examine Sean.

While my group’s attention was focused on the healer and patient, I took the opportunity to speak privately with Queen Glass. The conversation was brief and clumsy, on my part, however served my purposes. Glass Refractory was enamored with my silver-filigree looking-glass and was able to provide me some reassurances and pointers to its probably abilities. The monarch was also very interested in offering a trade. Luckily, Glass Refractory was drawn away, before I had to make a decision.

Red Rhea and Homer were up and gathering their meager supplies. Joey remained slumped against the stone table/altar, his glossy hazel-eyes opened, yet distant and haunted. Since the pastel physician had Tallwind well in hand, Gavin, Tegan, and I tagged along with the Queen, to verify the well being of ritualists and sacrifice. Rhea and Refractory conferred in private whispers, for several minutes, until Miss Bramblerose could wait no longer for a polite opening. “So, is it alright to take Joey to mortal doctors, now?”

“And where was he taken from, in the first place?” Mr. Granitbane flexed his crossed arms, though he simply sounded eager to return the boy to his family.

“You wish to take responsibility for the child?” Queen Glass sounded surprised

“We will take him to the hospital and make sure the mortal authorities can return him to his home, if possible,” our bright eyed bloomwell stated steadfastly.

With no objections and whatever tended that could be done completed, my gang departed the Hawk Wood Court of the Midwestern Territories. were no objections. The powdery spirit-touched had stabilized Sean, enough to be moved with care, though his neck wound still needed attention. Gavin scooped up the now sleeping sack of wrinkles, in one rough-cut arm, and the nearly catatonic Joey, in his other. Raion-ju had still no returned from chasing Doctor Barber, though we trusted that his glamour could lead him to us, if he chose. Even Dark Sol came with us.

Tegan’s gently swaying, jean-clad hips and bobbing auburn ponytail led our group of eight (counting both invalids) back along the Ways towards Ariadne’s Sheaves & Leaves, where ‘Runner’s taxi awaited, to drive the wounded to the hospital.

The Ways between the Salamander Mound and the Freehold reemerged, as if the vegetation was a slow-motion receding tide, returning the Wilder Wood to its marginally less congested state.

Raion-ju caught us up and confirmed that Dr. Barber had definitely fled the territory. Then there was a brief discussion, centering around general exhaustion. The result was that Rai led Iron Wade, Freerunner, and the exceptionally flagging Dark Sol back to our oak tree-house.

It felt like years since I had seen the perky dryad, Amaryllis. It seemed like a lifetime since I had slept in my down-filled bed or been alone in my own room. However, as Gavin and I were the least exhausted, I accepted ‘Runner’s keys, to drive his cab and get our wounded the hospital. Tegan must have given herself a boost of vitality, as well, for she was as awake as Gavin and I, so she came along for addition support.

On the way, I tried to assess how far gone Joey’s psyche had been driven. Walking next to Gavin, I spoke with the vacantly staring young-boy. Keeping my tone soft and not at all condescending. “Hey, there Joey… is it okay, if I call you Joey?”

No response, not even a flicker of facial muscles.

“Um, you can call me Tommy.”

The boy stared blankly forward.

“Well… um, the full name that I use is Twilight Tommy, but it’s okay if you just call me Tommy.”

No response.

“Uh, look Jo…” I was cut off.

“Joey’s not here. He’s afraid.” The boy’s voice was a tired dry whisper through barely moving lips, while the rest of his expression remained blank and glassy.

“Scared, huh?” I nodded and looked forward, while watching the cradled lad out of the corner of my eye. “Yeah, lots of scary stuff has been going on.”

We walked for a while.

“Say, um,” I only looked briefly at the boy. “do you know Joey’s last name?”

There was a pause, before the far away voice answered. “Joey Owens is what he used to be called.”

“Joey Owens, huh?” My throat wanted to constrict and I grasped for anything positive to say. “That sounds like a strong name. I know Joey Owens is scared now, and for good reason, but I bet someone weaker would be worse than scared.”

Walk a little.

“Does Joey Owens have a mom and a dad?” I asked, not really caring that neither of my allies seemed at all interested in what was being said.

“Joey doesn’t have a daddy.” The deadpan continued.

“Just a mom?’

The faintest nod.

“I bet Joey’s mom misses him and wants him to come home.”

A little more walking, then Joey spoke unprompted. “Joey wants to go home.”

“Really? Well, uh, we will have to work on that.” I continued to only watch from my periphery.

“Joey wants to go home and eat Cheereos.”

I smiled wanly, “Joey likes Cheereos, huh?”

Faint nod.

“Yeah,” I added, “me too. Sometimes I eat them dry with my hands… I tried them with milk, but it ran between my fingers and left me with a handful of mushy Cheereos.”

Joey’s mouth moved so slightly that I could only tell he smiled because I was watching closely.

“Well, Cheereos will probably be the easiest part.” I took a deep breath. “First, though, Joey has sores on his hands and feet and we need to get him to the hospital. Then the nurses will get him some Cheereos and help to make the some of the pain to go away.”

No additional responses came my way, however did not sense a backslide either. So, I kept talking to Joey every so often. I explained that the doctors and nurses would get him clean and bandaged, then they would call the police. Then the police would find Joey’s mom and bring her to him. Then Joey would go home with his mom. I made sure to admit that each thing would take time, while also reinforcing, “I know Joey Owens is strong and even if he is afraid, he can hang in there and wait for his mom to take him home, eventually.”

 

Reaching the O’Bleness Memorial’s side entrance, around seven-thirty, Tegan woke Sean Tallwind and helped him into emergency care. Per prior arrangement, the pretty bloomwell left the grumpy-gnarling there and returned to Freerunner’s taxi. Mr. Tallwind had roused earlier, long enough to use my pad and pen to insist on being alone in the hospital.

          While Tegan dealt with that, I pinned a note to the blond kid’s t-shirt “I am Joey Owens. I am hurt. I like Cheereos. My mom is looking for me.” Then, Mr. Granitbane carried Joey into O’Bleness and left him in a waiting room. Afterwards Gavin claimed that he had used a glamour to turn all record of his passage through the hospital into smoke.

Then my trio drove to our rental house and slept Saturday away. I was so beat that I barely even minded having to sleep in my clothes on the carpet.

 

The End

Although, Twilight Tommy’s tales do continue with “Motley Few”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View the [dramatis personae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3632565), to help keep track of characters and pseudonyms:  
> A Quick Reference:  
> Summerfire ≡ Rust-Red Spear, Swords, and Spades ≡ Choleric ≡ rage and competition  
> Autumnearth ≡ Bronze Mirror, Pentacles, and Diamonds ≡ Melancholic ≡ terror and lore  
> Winterwater/ice ≡ Frozen Crystal Challis, Cups, and Hearts ≡ Phlegmatic ≡ sorrow and secrecy  
> Springair/wood ≡ Flowered Cape, Wands, and Clubs ≡ Sanguine ≅ desire and pleasure  
> Also see the full [glossary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5165390), for tracking unusual terms and concepts.  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, for reading my story, I sincerely hope that you enjoyed it.  
> If you have the time, please let me know what you thought of this or any Twilight Tommy tale, with a comment here on AO3 or via email at gitariart@gmail.com. 
> 
> I appreciate any polite criticism, though I hope to receive some indication of was liked.  
> If you enjoyed my writing, please let others know about the stories and where to find them.  
> The next Twilight Tommy Tale, [Motley Few](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5177390), is available.  
> Thanks, again -- GitariArt  
> 


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